Being Right is Overrated
by kimlockt
Summary: Literati. 'Beautiful. She called him beautiful.' -- The after effects as Jess feels it.
1. Pablo Neruda

Title (for now): Being right is overrated  
  
Rating: PG (will probably change in the future)  
  
A/N: Everything up through Haunted Leg has happened. For those of you who don't have the names of the episodes memorized, Haunted Leg is the one where Jess confronts Rory in Doose's market and certain stealth-worthy information is shared. If our heroes had been paying attention they would have realized that a) Jess is hurt, b) Rory is jealous of Shane and, c) they are both crazy about each other.  
  
This is my happy little alternate universe using the early Season 3 episodes as a launching point. Oh yeah, it's a literati. Please read and review (I live for feedback!)  
  
. . .  
  
********  
  
. . .  
It is night in Stars Hollow. The streets have a comforting tucked-in quietness that seems only to live in the kind of small towns where everybody knows your name. Rory wanders down the street, taking her safety for granted as is her privilege for having grown up in such a place. Despite the tranquility of the evening, Rory's soul is turbulent. She nears Luke's Diner and slows, her apprehension centered not on what could happen as she walks alone on the street but on what could happen if she enters the diner.  
  
She thinks back to their argument at Doose's Market. She knows he was probably right about, 'Okay just admit it. . . everything,' she thinks. This thought gives her brief pause but she quickly dismisses it concluding 'being right is overrated.' Shaking her head, she wonders when denial replaced coffee as her principal crutch to get through the day. As an image of Dean flits through her mind, she shakes her head wondering when her life became one big exercise in avoiding people she'd just rather not see. 'Pathetic,' she thinks, 'my life is officially pathetic.'  
  
Stopping in the protective shadows just beyond the front window, she surreptitiously peers inside the glass, surveying the diner. It is empty save one lone person standing behind the counter polishing glassware. Taking in the wearer's flannel shirt and backwards baseball cap, Rory smiles in relief.  
  
Luke looks up as the bells above the door jingle. Seeing Rory enter, he smiles and says, "Meeting your mom?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"She's not here yet."  
  
"Oh," Rory replies, looking around pensively.  
  
"Coffee?" Luke asks, already turning to grab the coffee pot and pour her a cup.  
  
"Thanks," Rory says, smiling at him weakly.  
  
Looking at her curiously, he notes her apprehension and guesses incorrectly at its source. "She must have gotten held up," Luke offers, trying to ease her concern. "She's probably already on her way."  
  
"Well, there's a conference at the Inn tomorrow so she mentioned she might be late, something about the National Insulation Contractors Association and Michel and pork barbeque. . . " Rory says shrugging her shoulders. Spying a corner booth she turns to Luke, "I'll just wait here for her if that's OK."  
  
"Sure," he says, picking up another glass to begin polishing it.  
  
Walking over to the counter, Rory picks up the mug of coffee Luke poured for her and heads for the booth. Sloughing off her backpack and winter coat, she slides into it. Fishing a small book out of her backpack, Rory begins reading. Nerves and apprehension fade away as Rory becomes lost in the words on the page.  
  
"Jess!" Luke shouts from behind the counter.  
  
Shocked back into the present, Rory looks at Luke. He has finished polishing the glasses and they are nowhere in sight, having been stowed away under the counter. The upstairs apartment door opens.  
  
A muffled "What?" floats down from the top of the stairs as Jess's voice is heard shouting in reply.  
  
Luke walks to the bottom of the stairs and pushes the curtains aside.  
  
"Get down here. I need you to watch the diner. I have to go to Hartford to pick up the new cabinet hinges from Home Depot," Luke says as he walks back behind the counter, taking off his apron, and heading into the kitchen. "They called. They're in. I have to get them. You have to close tonight."  
  
Footsteps sound on the stairs as Jess comes into view. "I really appreciate all the advanced notice you give me," he says scowling.  
  
"I just found out. Sorry I can't plan around your busy social schedule," Luke says shrugging on his jacket and heading out the door. "I'll be back later. Bye, Rory."  
  
The door slams behind Luke and Jess freezes. 'You gotta be kidding me,' he thinks. Blood drains from his head and rushes speedily to his feet at the mention of Rory's name. Feeling unbalanced, his body remains facing the door as his head turns in the direction Luke tossed his goodbye.  
  
Hoping that Luke had forgotten that she was still in the diner, Rory had been just about to hide under the table. She slid down in her seat, ducked her head to the side, and was dipping out of sight when she heard Luke's departing goodbye. Instantly panicked, she tried to sit back up but she was already too far under the table. Losing her balance, she flailed her arms wildly, desperately attempting to right herself. Instead, her uncontrolled movement caused her to topple sideways where she flopped face first into the booth. Blushing profusely, she pushed herself up with all the force that someone desperately embarrassed can muster and accidentally cracked her head on the table edge. An involuntarily "Ow!" escapes her as her hand flies up to massage her wounded head.  
  
Trying to recapture a small portion of her dignity, Rory forces herself to meet his eyes.  
  
"Let me guess, some new form of seated aerobics?" he asks her, trying to control the laughter so obviously bubbling up inside of him.  
  
Staring daggers at him, Rory mumbles, "I lost my balance."  
  
"You were going to hide under that table," he accuses her, phrasing it as a statement, rather than a question.  
  
"I was not!"  
  
"What were going to do? Crawl out when I wasn't looking?"  
  
"I was not trying to hide from you!"  
  
"That door has a bell," he says, pointing at the front entrance to the diner, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I would have heard you leave."  
  
"I wasn't planning to sneak out."  
  
"So you were just going to stay under there? Maybe sleep there tonight? I haven't tried it but it's probably not very comfortable. Of course, I'm just guessing here."  
  
"I dropped my pen." Rory lies. "I was just bending down to pick it up."  
  
"You mean that pen that's sitting in the middle of the table?" he smirks, his eyes shifting to the pen and then back to her.  
  
"Oh," Rory says, surprised. "I thought I dropped it."  
  
"I hear that's the first stage of caffeine-induced psychosis."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Hallucinations. Maybe you should see a doctor."  
  
Sighing, Rory continues rubbing the sore spot on her head.  
  
"Does it hurt?" Jess asks, his voice softening.  
  
"A little."  
  
Jess walks over to her, his hand reaching up and catching hers, pulling it away. At his touch, Rory stops fidgeting, stops breathing. His other hand reaches up to move her hair out of the way, as he tucks the loose strands behind her ear. Rory's breath catches at this intimate gesture that nevertheless feels natural, normal. Leaning closer to inspect her forehead, Jess' fingers skim the delicate skin on her face.  
  
'He is so near, only inches away,' she thinks. 'He smells great, like Jess.'  
  
"It's already swelling," he tells her. "You're going to have a bruise."  
  
"Oh. . ." Rory says, realizing that he has not yet released her other hand and unconsciously, their fingers have entwined.  
  
Jess looks away from the bump on her head and his eyes meet hers. He hadn't realized their faces were so close together. 'It would be so easy to kiss her right now,' he thinks, his eyes falling to her lips. 'She really has amazing lips.'  
  
Her mouth suddenly dry, Rory unconsciously licks her lips.  
  
Almost imperceptively Jess leans slightly forward, as though gravity is shifting and he is unable to resist. 'Oh my God, what are you doing Mariano?' he thinks suddenly. Swallowing hard, he stands abruptly and backs away, dropping her hand.  
  
"I'll get you some ice for that bump," he says, retreating into the kitchen.  
  
Rory stares dumbly at his retreating back. 'I thought he was going to kiss me,' Rory frowns as disappointment washes over her. Tears form behind her eyes as she curses silently, blinking rapidly to clear her vision. 'What is wrong with me? I shouldn't care that he didn't kiss me. In fact, I shouldn't want him to kiss me at all. This is all wrong.' Trying to gain control over her emotions, she turns towards the window and breathes deeply, inhaling and exhaling long breaths through her mouth.  
  
"Here," Jess says returning to her side. He crouches in front of her and places a clean dishtowel filled with ice on her injured forehead.  
  
"Ouch."  
  
"I know, but it'll help," Jess grins at her.  
  
Rory reaches her hand up to hold the ice pack herself and accidentally places her hand directly on top of his. "Oh. . ."  
  
"Uh. . ."  
  
They both look down at the floor. Rory blushes while Jess clears his throat, removing his hand.  
  
"Thanks," Rory whispers, looking at him.  
  
"No problem," Jess answers, standing. 'I can't do this anymore,' he thinks. 'If I keep letting her in, she'll just keep hurting me. ' Quickly, before she can see the pain and want in his eyes, he retreats behind his protective walls. Casting about for something, anything, to put some distance between them, his eyes fall on Rory's book lying forgotten on the table. "Pablo Neruda?" he questions, smirking. "Isn't he a little. . . mature for you?"  
  
"Mature?" Rory says, repeating his word.  
  
"Yeah, especially that one," he states raising his eyebrows. "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair? That's pretty serious stuff."  
  
"It's a good thing you're here then. You can explain all the big words to me," Rory says, her irritation returning.  
  
"As I recall, those poems are mainly about sex. Are you sure the words are the only things you need me to explain?"  
  
Rory's face burns while a mild pain sprouts like a seed inside of her. "Don't you have work to do?" Rory questions flatly, pretending to return to her reading.  
  
"Nope," Jess responds, sliding into her booth. "You're my only customer. So how do you like it?"  
  
"This is called ignoring you. It's what I'm doing now," she retorts, not looking up from her book.  
  
"I thought it was called reading. Huh. . . learn something new every day. What's it called when your face turns red like that?"  
  
At this comment, Rory looks up at him, her eyes stormy, angry.  
  
"C'mon Rory," he entreats, "How do you like the book?"  
  
Knowing in her heart that he is not going to leave, Rory sighs loudly. She makes eye contact with him. He raises his eyebrows, as he silently challenges her to answer his question.  
  
"Neruda's amazing," she finally admits.  
  
"So, you like it?"  
  
"Yeah. You know, he was part of a Latin American counterculture at the turn of the 20th Century that was very similar to what happened in the US with the Beats in the 1960s," Rory explains, beginning to grow animated.  
  
"How so?" Jess asks.  
  
"Well, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Creely, Ferlinghetti. . . those guys, wrote about defying conventions, about human needs, love, emotions, question for religion, even mixing science and religion in an experimental spirituality. . ."  
  
"Sure, but what made the Beats different was their rebellion against seriousness in writing," Jess counters. "They maintained the modernist ideas about form but closed the gap between art and life, making art more relevant. They used the pages differently, arranged words in shapes, ignored conventions of grammar, punctuation. . ."  
  
"I know! My point is that some of these Spanish writers like Neruda got there first. Take Miguel de Unamuno. He wanted something more real than what he thought were the false traditions of Spain. He questioned his own existence, ultimate truth, and examined a possible balance between faith and reason to understand the existence of God. . . .and did all this in the late 1800's."  
  
"What's this got to do with Neruda?"  
  
"Neruda followed closely on the heels of Unamuno and others like him. Neruda wrote love poems but he also wrote about social injustice and the disparity between rich and poor, powerful and exploited."  
  
"Interesting," says Jess, staring intently at Rory.  
  
"Isn't it?" Rory agrees.  
  
"Well, yeah, for sure. What I meant though was. . . it's interesting that you're reading a steamy book of love poems and when I ask you how you like it, you start talking about the author and a Spanish literary revolution that happened 100 years ago."  
  
Rory sucks in her breath. Coloring deeply, she stammers, "My interests are varied. . . I look at the poems in their context and the author's intent when writing and what was happening culturally and socially at the time. . ."  
  
"Rory," Jess interrupts her babbling. "What do you think of the poems?"  
  
Rory stops talking and blinks at him. "They're beautiful," she finally whispers.  
  
Jess smiles. "Do you think they were all written to the same woman?"  
  
"Probably not," Rory muses. "In one he talks about a woman with 'milky white breasts' and 'exquisite sadness' which doesn't sound even remotely like the woman he wrote about in 'Girl Lithe and Tawny.'"  
  
"I agree, there's probably more than one woman in there. I wish I could read the original Spanish."  
  
"You don't speak Spanish?"  
  
"I speak Span-glish. You know, street Spanish. Just enough to understand the curse words the Puerto Rican kids in my neighborhood used to yell at me, " Jess grinned.  
  
"Gotcha."  
  
"When did you start reading Neruda?"  
  
"I've always been a fan but for some reason the words came alive to me when I was in Washington last summer. I must have read 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair' 20 times."  
  
"Any part stand out? Do you have a favorite?"  
  
Before she thinks twice, Rory closes her eyes and quotes "Why must the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?" Rory opens her eyes and sees Jess staring at her strangely, intently. Only then does she realize what she has said, what she has told him, admitted to him. The seed of pain planted earlier sprouts tiny roots. Trying to cover and deflect, she says, "Do you have a favorite passage?"  
  
Jess hesitates before answering. After long moments, his voice husky, he whispers, "You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Cling to me as though you were frightened. Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes. How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running."  
  
Silence descends.  
  
"Rory. . ." "Jess. . ." They begin simultaneously. At that moment, the bells of the front diner door sound.  
  
"Offspring!" Lorelei shouts in greeting.  
  
The moment is sliced in two by the entrance of a third person. Jess breaks eye contact with Rory by standing. Quickly he walks behind the counter cursing his shaking hands. Rory feels slightly dizzy, her thoughts a jumble.  
  
"All problems solved at the Inn," Lorelei announces happily. "Except, tomorrow afternoon, you have to come to the Inn and pick up Michel's car, change the oil and wash it."  
  
"What?" Rory asks snapping out of her stupor.  
  
"Well, you don't have to change the oil. You can take it somewhere and have someone else do it."  
  
"Oh, that changes it entirely," Rory notes sarcastically.  
  
"I had to promise him SOMETHING in exchange for coming in on his day off."  
  
"Well, promise him a different day off! Do I look like a Texaco station to you?" Rory grumbles. "I am so not doing that."  
  
"Hey, he wanted me to throw in a waxing and I said absolutely not. See how I look out for you?"  
  
"My best interests are always in the front of your mind, aren't they?"  
  
"Always," Lorelei agrees. "I think it won't seem so bad to you in the morning. Besides, you can always sweet talk Narcolepsy Boy into doing it for you."  
  
Anticipating their need for coffee, Jess has already prepared two go-cups for them. He flinches at the reference to Dean. Rory notes his discomfort and looks at her feet.  
  
"Hey look!" Lorelei says. "Coffee! And I didn't even have to beg. Wow, Diner Boy may not be as bad as I thought." Lorelei grabs her cup and starts heading for the door.  
  
Picking the Neruda book off the table, Rory lags slightly behind. Carefully, she looks at Jess. He looks hurt, angry, disappointed. "Thanks," she whispers, wishing she had more words to say and more courage to say them.  
  
Knitting his eyebrows together, Jess nods and looks away.  
  
Rory leaves the diner and Jess watches the Gilmore girls walk together past the front window. 'Pathetic,' he thinks. 'My life is officially pathetic.'  
  
A/N: Thanks for reading. Part 2 coming soon (well, maybe soon-ish is more like it!) Please review! ( 


	2. John Irving

A/N: Just a couple things I wanted to mention. . . I upped the rating to PG-13 because in this chapter. I write from Jess' POV and his head is a PG- 13 kind of place. Actually, Jess' mind is R rated (is there any doubt of that?) but I have toned it down for you for now. Depending on where this story takes me, I'll readdress the rating issue later.  
  
Second, I'm sorry if anyone was confused in Chapter One about the source of the poetry quotes. They are both from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, by Pablo Neruda.  
  
Third, I wanted to send shout outs to:  
  
Pretty Words Like Blades - That was officially my longest and most specific feedback ever. Your comments were incredibly helpful and I'd love to hear from you again. Thanks!  
  
Someone - You are my most faithful reviewer. You rock!  
  
Everyone else who reviewed, THANK YOU! You honor me by taking the time to share your opinions with me. It helps me tremendously to both continue writing and to strive to create believable characters and situations.  
  
Fourth, I do not own the Gilmore Girls. I always forget to say that.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
. . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Rory and Lorelei walk together down the street in Stars Hollow heading for home. After Lorelei's exuberance in the diner, she is strangely quiet now. In truth, both women are subdued, lost in their own thoughts. The two walk together, drinking their coffee, not speaking.  
  
"Are you going to make me ask?" Lorelei questions, breaking their silence.  
  
"What?" Rory responds, feigning innocence.  
  
"Well, we could start with what happened to your head or we could talk about what was going on back there with Jess. Your choice."  
  
"I hit it and nothing."  
  
"Rory. . ."  
  
Rory sighs. Looking at a sight unseen in the distance she begins, "Let's start with my head. That's the easier of the two to explain."  
  
"OK, your head it is," Lorelei states appraising her daughter out of the corner of her eye.  
  
"What do you want to hear first?" Rory asks, stopping to face her mother. "The truth or the lie I'm going to make up about it?"  
  
"Start with the lie," Lorelei says, draping a comforting arm around her daughter's shoulders as the two resume walking. "It's probably more interesting."  
  
Rory looks up at Lorelei and the two share a smile. The conversation between mother and daughter begins as they walk side-by-side.  
  
THE NEXT DAY  
  
Rory wakes to find her room awash in golden hues like the inside of a jack- o-lantern, as the sun leaks in around the edges of her drawn curtains. Rolling over, she rubs her eyes, searching the cluttered nightstand for her alarm clock. Finding it, she picks it up to read the electronic display. It is 8:55 on Saturday morning and the house is quiet. 'Quieter that it should be,' Rory muses.  
  
Yawning, she sits up. She reaches onto the floor for the sweatshirt she discarded the previous night. Padding into the kitchen, Rory pulls the sweatshirt over her head as she searches for her mother. Instead of Lorelei, she finds a note.  
  
Mary Ann, Gone to work early. National Insulation Contractors thing, (btw - remind me to check the attic for radon and asbestos.) Don't forget about Michel's car. Love, Ginger  
  
Groaning, Rory picks up the phone.  
  
"Independence Inn," Lorelei answers.  
  
"I thought you were kidding about Michel's car," Rory whines.  
  
"Why would you think that? I never kid."  
  
"Mom. . ."  
  
"Honey, I really need your help today. I know, I know. . . I suck, but I promise I will make it up to you somehow. We'll go shoe shopping, or you can get a tattoo, or have a keg party and invite all your hard-drinking friends over for a night of wilding. . . Whatever you want!"  
  
"I don't have any hard-drinking friends."  
  
"I know!" Lorelei exclaims. "That's why I can offer stuff like that."  
  
"I can't believe I'm even considering doing this for you on my precious Saturday," Rory concedes.  
  
"Have I mentioned yet today how much I love you?"  
  
"Actually, you haven't."  
  
"Sweetie, I love you. So does Dean who, by the way, would surely do this for you if you asked," Lorelei asserts. "Use your feminine wiles on him."  
  
"I am pretty irresistible."  
  
"As are all Gilmore women."  
  
"You will definitely owe me so big," scowls Rory. A vision of Saturday escaping away flashes through her mind.  
  
"Agreed, but now I've gotta run. I've already left Michel alone for too long with those insulation guys. They were talking about wrapping him in fiberglass. Apparently, he is lacking in Gilmore charm. Bye, baby."  
  
"Hmpf," Rory grunts, hanging up the phone. She shuffles into the bathroom for a quick shower before venturing to the diner.  
  
When she finally makes it to Lukes, the diner is Saturday morning crowded. Automatically, she heads to the counter and sits on a vacant stool.  
  
"Hey Rory," Luke smiles at her. "Coffee?"  
  
"Please," she smiles back.  
  
"What else can I get you?"  
  
"Feels like a pancake day," Rory answers, scanning the diner.  
  
"Pancakes coming up."  
  
She's still searching the diner when Jess comes out of the kitchen. Turning around, she finds herself face to face with him. Slightly startled, she jumps.  
  
"Oh, hi," she says, recovering.  
  
"Hey Gorbachev," he answers as his eyes wander over the purplish bruise on her forehead.  
  
"Funny," Rory says sarcastically. She had examined her injured forehead in the mirror after showering. It wasn't swollen. The ice had been a good idea. Unfortunately, it was bruised.  
  
Smirking, Jess walks to a table where two older women are waiting for their orders to be taken. Rory watches him pull out his pad and begin to write.  
  
Rory POV  
  
I like to watch him work, I always have. I was better at ignoring him before our conversation yesterday. I could will myself to pretend like he wasn't in the room, the same way a kid who shuts her eyes believes she's invisible. Now, it's started again and I can't help it. . . something about the way he moves commands my attention, calls my name. When I feel him focus in my direction, I keep my gaze to myself or steal looks out of the corner of my eye. One of my best tricks is to appear interested in other diner activities so I can spy on him using my peripheral vision. I'm probably rusty at it now, clumsy from lack of practice. When his back is turned, my glance is steadier, more directly appraising.  
  
I just like the way he moves. It's. . . I don't know, maybe 'sexy' is the right word. He's quiet. If it weren't for the clatter of the dishes he carries, he'd make no sound at all. I guess that's learned, a survival skill. I can imagine him walking through the streets of New York, by his own choice completely unnoticed, standing on the edge of activity, unseen, observing.  
  
I've studied his body from every angle. I know the way his muscles move underneath his clothes, the length of his stride, the way he holds a pen. His jaw line is as familiar to me as my own. I can tell which side of his body he slept on by the way his hair lies. I swear, I've earned a PhD in 'Jess Watching' and yet, I still can't read him. It's interesting in a way, frustrating too. He's hiding and I'm not sure why. I take comfort in the fact that at least I know it's a façade, which is more than anyone else in this town realizes. They think the Jess they see is the Jess that's real. I know the truth is far more complicated. He's a mystery, an enigma.  
  
There's a book in his back pocket, one that I don't recognize. Yes, I know most of his books by their covers! Jess Watching is my hobby and trust me, I'm good at it. At least I was before I forced myself to stop after I came back from Washington. When he gets closer, I'll find out what book that is. Every piece of information I gather is another clue I add to my collection of Jess facts that I'm storing, cataloging. Eventually, I'll have what I need to put this puzzle together and break through this false projection of Jess, his public self. I feel mildly guilty, like a thief stealing from him. That's just another thing for me to get over because I don't honestly care if this is wrong. Like I said before, being right is overrated.  
  
Jess POV  
  
She's watching me. It's been a long time since she watched me move around the diner. I wonder if this means she's done being mad at me. Frankly, I'm not sure how I feel about that. When she was angry, she mostly ignored me which made ignoring her easier. It also made being with Shane less complicated, less conflicting. Shane. I can't say that she's a substitute for Rory because she's not even close, but she is a distraction. Like all the girls I knew in New York, I can escape in Shane's body and forget. Forget that I'm stuck in this town, forget what I've lost, mostly just forget Rory.  
  
Rory's anger over Shane highlights her inexperience, her naivety. Shane is only in my life because Rory cut me out of hers. She made her choice when she left without saying goodbye, when she stayed with Dean, when she ignored me for months. What did she think I would do? Sit around and pine for her? What really irritates me though, is that I hate having hurt her. It genuinely pisses me off that I feel guilty when I haven't done anything wrong. It's so fucking stupid.  
  
So, she's back to this spying thing she does. She thinks I don't know that she's studying me but I'm street-raised. I can take the pulse of any room in less than two minutes. Rory is in the minor leagues of surveillance compared to me. It used to unnerve me but I got used to it. It feels familiar now. If I were to be totally honest, I'd have to admit that I like it when she watches me. I must because I've never called her on it. I just. . . let her. I've missed it, this weird unspoken connection we have.  
  
The bigger truth is that she needs to watch me. She's so trapped. Perfection is a tyrannical master, offering no margin for error, no opportunity to be human. She's stayed on the course they've set for her and lived up to all their expectations. Now, she's tied up tight and lost. She's sitting there on that stool dying by inches and the only one who sees it is me. I'm not just the guy she wants, I'm the guy she needs. I see it in her eyes, I sense it in her body. She looks at me like I could save her and the truth is, I could. I know it like I know my name. I'd help her if she'd let me. Sadly, I doubt she will.  
  
Rory and Jess  
  
Rory eats her pancakes and drinks her coffee while she continues her quiet study of Jess. She takes the opportunity provided by Jess' delivery of the tab to the older women's table to fulfill her quest. Her view of the book in his jeans pocket is unobstructed except for a slight glare on the paperback's cover, which she compensates for by leaning back. This is when Jess catches her. She is so engrossed in her task that she doesn't notice him staring directly at her, wearing his trademark smirk. He is still for too long. Realization dawns on her and she knows she's been caught. She looks up to meet his gaze.  
  
"See something back there you like?" he asks her.  
  
"A Prayer for Owen Meany," she answers grinning triumphantly.  
  
Smiling, he pulls the book from his pocket and walks over to her. "Read it?" he questions.  
  
"Yeah. I loved it," she informs him. "Owen Meany is one of the most original characters ever created."  
  
"I'll give you that. It's not everyday you read about an immaculately conceived dwarf-like boy with a strange voice who accidentally kills his best friend's mom with a baseball."  
  
"And believes that he is an instrument of God," Rory finishes for him.  
  
"It's interesting the way that Irving paired up Owen who was convinced that he was born to be a martyr with John who battles mediocrity his entire life."  
  
"Maybe the contrast is meant to illustrate the extremes, bring them to light."  
  
"Maybe," Jess agrees. "I really couldn't identify with John very much."  
  
"You're not a Joseph?"  
  
"Nope. I don't have much in common with a 40-year old virgin."  
  
Coloring slightly, Rory asks, "So you identify more with Owen?"  
  
"Hester."  
  
"You would."  
  
Jess grins.  
  
"I'm guessing you also liked the references to Dicken's A Christmas Carol," Rory speculates.  
  
"Yup. Using the staging of the play as the catalyst for Owen's vision of his own tombstone was cool. Talk about a visit by the ghost of Christmas Future."  
  
"Gives me the SHIVERS," she laughs.  
  
"I'm not sure how I feel about all the predestination stuff, though."  
  
"Well, Owen believed he was born to be a hero and he was right."  
  
"But he couldn't possibly have known that."  
  
"And yet, he did."  
  
"But that's impossible."  
  
"And yet, it was true."  
  
Jess shakes his head, thinking. "Read anything else by John Irving?"  
  
"Just Cider House Rules."  
  
"Ah. Your run of the mill book about an ether addict abortionist who operates an apple orchard and an orphanage at the same time, and lets his nurses give the babies born there names like 'Fluffy'."  
  
"Yeah, it's the same old plot you read time and time again."  
  
They share a smile.  
  
"Irving has an amazing sense of his characters," Rory observes.  
  
"They're victims of tragedy, violence, and injustice but they remain noble and free-spirited."  
  
"Like real people," Rory states.  
  
"The lucky ones," Jess corrects, looking away.  
  
He turns back to find Rory studying him thoughtfully. He makes eye contact with her and Rory meets his gaze smiling slightly, warmly. He feels a thin shiver of need cut through his barely healed scars.  
  
"Jess," Luke interrupts, walking up to the pair carrying several plates laden with food. Handing them to Jess he points to a window booth, "Take these over there to that family with the twins."  
  
Jess takes the plates and walks away.  
  
"Where's your mom?" Luke asks Rory.  
  
"She's working at that thing at the Inn," Rory answers.  
  
"Ah," Luke nods, slightly disappointed to learn that Lorelei wouldn't be bustling through the Diner doors anytime soon. Doing a double take he leans slightly closer to Rory, "What the hell happened to your head?"  
  
Reflexively moving her hand to touch her injury, Rory sighs, "It's a long story."  
  
"What's a long story?" asks a voice at her elbow. She looks at the voice's owner and finds Dean standing next to her.  
  
"How she got that nasty bruise on her forehead," Luke responds for her.  
  
"What?" Dean questions, his face concerned, his eyes worried. It is his turn to study her bruise. "Oh my God, what happened to you?"  
  
"Oh," Rory responds. "I didn't realize mom had started storing her boots in the kitchen cabinet above the coffee maker. I opened it to get a coffee filter and one of her platform Roberto Cavalli suede boots fell out and hit me on the forehead."  
  
"Your mother is officially a lunatic," Luke observes before walking back into the kitchen.  
  
Dean chuckles, "Ouch. That must have hurt."  
  
"It did but I put ice on it and the swelling went down. It actually looks worse than it is," she lies.  
  
Dean leans forward, kisses her bruise and asks, "What are you doing today? Do you want to hang?"  
  
"I can't,' says Rory. "I promised mom I'd help her at the Inn."  
  
"Do you need an extra set of hands? I actually have the day off from the market."  
  
"No," Rory replies. She hears her mother's voice in the back of her mind saying 'Dean would surely do this for you if you asked' but she pushes it down shaking her head. "It's just something she needs me to do for her."  
  
"OK. Can I see you later?"  
  
"Well. . ." she hesitates. Feeling guilty and unable to think of an excuse to avoid seeing him she relents, "Sure."  
  
"Great! I'll pick up a movie and come over. Say, 7:30?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"See you tonight," Dean says as he leans forward to kiss her goodbye. Rory allows him a tiny peck on her lips before turning her head.  
  
"Bye," Dean says as he leaves the diner.  
  
"Yeah, bye," Rory's voice trails after him as she watches his departing back. She picks up her coffee mug and takes a drink. It had been right there, the perfect moment to ask for Dean's help with Michel's car. Rory had seen the opportunity arrive, take shape and dissipate, like a dandelion she plucked and blew on to watch the white fluffs of cotton float away on her breath. The question was why. Why didn't she want his help? Frowning, she sets her coffee down, closes her eyes and massages the bridge of her nose just between her eyes.  
  
"So much for a relationship based on trust and honesty."  
  
Rory opens her eyes and sees Jess next to her. His mouth is set in a hard line, his eyes are stormy, angry.  
  
"What are you talking about?" she responds.  
  
"You just lied to your boyfriend about how you got that bruise. Where I come from, that's not exactly a sign of a healthy relationship."  
  
"I didn't lie to Dean. I handled him."  
  
"You 'handled' him?" Jess deadpans, knitting his brows together.  
  
"Yep, that was a classic example of handling, taken straight out of the textbook," Rory asserts. "You've obviously never taken 'Jealous Boyfriend 101'."  
  
"Nope. I must have been in 'Grow a Backbone 202' during that one."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Nothing," Jess shrugs. "I thought we were comparing academic histories."  
  
"Do you really want to compare academic records with me?"  
  
"I'm actually a little worried about that big fancy school of yours. If they haven't covered the basics like the difference between the truth and a lie, I wonder what else they've missed. You do know the earth revolves around the sun, don't you?"  
  
"No way!" she retorts sarcastically. "I thought the sun was pulled across the sky each day by a giant chariot. Wait. . . the sun is that big round glowing thing, right?"  
  
Jess is just about to answer her when Shane, who has entered the diner unnoticed by both Rory and Jess, grabs him from behind, spins him around, and plants her version of a mind blowing kiss on him. His instinct is to push her away but remembering the earlier scene between Rory and Dean, he doesn't. Instead, he responds passionately, his arms wrapping around Shane, his hands traveling down her body until they land directly on her butt.  
  
Rolling her eyes, Rory tosses money on the counter and grabs her coat. "I need to leave before I lose my breakfast," she tells no one in particular. She wastes no time in walking out of the diner.  
  
When he hears the bell ring and the diner door close, Jess releases Shane.  
  
"Yum," Shane purrs, believing that she elicited the intense response from Jess. "I missed you too, baby."  
  
"Whatever," Jess scowls as he watches Rory disappear from view through the front window of the diner.  
  
Only when Rory is safely out of sight does she let her emotions surface. Her face falls and her shoulders sag as she makes her way to the Inn.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
A/N: Please read and review. Honestly, I am so addicted to feedback I may need therapy. 


	3. Alice Sebold

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed the first two chapters. You guys are great (and hilarious!) I just want to remind you that patience is a virtue and you will be rewarded as I am a literati to my very core. Remember though, life is not just a destination. The joy's in the ride, my friends. Please sit back and enjoy the tour, err. . . story. (You know what I mean.)  
  
Special note to Someone - Nobody hates Dean more than me (except maybe you.) Trust me, I am going someplace nice with this fic. Scout's honor!  
  
. . .  
  
. . .  
  
. . .  
  
'God, he's infuriating,' Rory thinks as she walks to the Inn. It is cold outside but her jacket swings open, unbuttoned, her irritation distracting her from the wind that tugs and lifts the corners of her jacket. Her thoughts come to her in random order without the benefit of chronological sequence to help her sort them, make sense of them. Her mind racing, she allows the thoughts to enter at will. She examines each rapidly and then carelessly thrusts it aside to turn attention to a newly entering thought. Periodically, she sifts back through previously discarded ones searching for a lost idea only to quickly become distracted by a new thought, a new emotion. Thoughts bounce, careen, skitter, crash into each other, bunch in corners, twirl, tilt, whirl, and slide around in her brain.  
  
'Where does he get off criticizing my relationship with Dean?' she thinks. Enter second random thought. 'Does Michel drive stick? Could be a problem.' File that. Become angry again. 'They're together freaking constantly and I have yet to hear her utter a complete sentence. I mean, seriously, can she even read? I bet only Cosmo. God, I hope she makes him take the quiz with her. It would so completely serve him right.' Stop. Low flying thought coming in at 80 miles per hour. 'And for his information, I built a model of the solar system when I was six years old! The damn thing was to scale and the planets rotated. I even added the space shuttle! Didn't mom take a picture of it? I wonder where that is?' Abrupt halt. Sudden course change, 25 degrees to starboard on my mark. Go! 'In the grand scheme of things, it's just a little unimportant fib. A half-truth really. Barely even a lie, more like a lie-let. Lie-lette? Mini-lie?' Put that on hold. Return to Shane. 'I bet she thinks John Irving is a basketball player.' Stream of consciousness shift. Basketball player. Tall. Dean. 'He's going to rent Lord of the Rings. It's not a bad flick but those hairy hobbit feet kinda freak me out. At least Viggo Mortensen is hot. Sigh. . . so is Jess. Ack! Where did that come from?' Return to earlier thought. 'Fiblet?' Careen mind to kiss at Diner. 'I bet she doesn't floss. I hope he gets scurvy. . . or mono. . . or tonsillitis. . . Talk about serving him right.' Enter new emotion. 'I've really missed talking to him.' Pause. Feel pain. Snap out of it. Return to original emotion. 'I mean, it's easy for him to judge when he has never had to deal with an irrational jealous boyfriend. God, I hope he's never had to deal with a jealous boyfriend.' Become frustrated. 'Damn, damn, damn. . .'  
  
Logical Rory has left the building.  
  
Without noticing, Rory has reached the Inn. On autopilot, she walks inside and makes her way across the lobby.  
  
"You!" Michel shouts at Rory.  
  
Shocked out of her stupor, Rory looks at Michel. He is standing behind the Inn's Front Desk eyeing her warily. "Huh?" she replies.  
  
"You are to take my car to be serviced today?"  
  
"Oh," she says remembering why she has come to the Inn. "Yeah. Is your car- "  
  
"I assume you have a valid drivers license," Michel interrupts.  
  
"Of course I do."  
  
"Show it to me."  
  
"Why? I just told you that I have one. Do you think mom would let me drive without a license?"  
  
"I want to check your restrictions."  
  
"I don't have any restrictions, Michel."  
  
"Hmm. . ." Michel pauses, critically inspecting her up and down as if her appearance will provide clues about her driving ability. "Show it to me anyway."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Rory sloughs off her backpack as she approaches the Front Desk. The heavy bag hits the counter with a loud thud as she begins digging through it in search of her wallet. 'Oh, The Lovely Bones,' she thinks as she finds the Alice Sebold book wedged at the bottom of her bag. 'I've been looking for that.' Michel interrupts her thoughts.  
  
"Have you ever been in any accidents?" Michel interrogates her.  
  
"None that were my fault," she answers absentmindedly, locating her wallet next to her spare pair of Chilton tights. Opening it, she begins fishing through the compartments for her license.  
  
"What is this? I was not told you have damaged cars in the past," Michel exclaims. "I insist you tell me about your driving history. Do you have a drinking problem?" he asks narrowing his eyes.  
  
"What? No. One time a deer hit my car and then another time, I was eating ice cream and my. . . uh. . . 'friend' totaled my car but that was really the fault of the furry thing," she explains, finding her license and handing it to him.  
  
"You hit a deer?"  
  
"No, the deer hit me. It came out of nowhere and slammed into my car."  
  
"How is this possible?"  
  
"Oh, it happens all the time. Apparently a large portion of the deer population is suicidal."  
  
"And the second time, there was another creature involved?"  
  
"Jess."  
  
"No, a small furry scampering creature."  
  
"Oh right. Sorry. Yeah, some sort of four-legged mammal thing. It was fast, I didn't get a good look at it."  
  
"So you are like the pied piper, summoning animals to cars."  
  
"No. Well, I guess twice. . . but I will try to use my powers only for good from now on."  
  
"You are fired," he declares handing back her drivers license unexamined.  
  
"You can't fire me. I'm free."  
  
"I'm sorry but I believe I have a right to participate in this conversation," says Kirk, walking up next to Rory.  
  
"What rude intrusion!" Michel states. "This does not concern you."  
  
"As the principal doer of odd jobs in Stars Hollow, I feel I should receive the right of first refusal on all errands that need running. Rory," he addresses her, "if you are going to go into competition with me, I'll need to see your articles of incorporation and insist that you be bonded, insured, and licensed to operate by the town council."  
  
"I am not starting an errand service, Kirk," she informs him. "Mom asked me to help Michel and I'm not getting paid."  
  
"Yes, that is also troubling," Kirk continues. "A glut of free labor in this economy will only drive prices down. I must demand that you charge him."  
  
"What!?" Michel sputters. "You cannot demand such a thing."  
  
"Your price quote should be in writing, if possible," Kirk says to Rory. Turning to Michel he continues, "Then, I'd like to be granted a reasonable amount of time to respond with a counteroffer of my own. Three days should be enough time for me to put together a proposal for you."  
  
"You are a crazy man. Get out of my Inn." Michel orders.  
  
"My rates are really very reasonable." Kirk replies calmly. "I also have excellent references."  
  
"Here," Michel says, handing Rory his car keys. "You are not to leave my car unattended for any reason. If you must park it, ensure that there is at least one open parking place on each side. If that is not possible, park only next to 4-door sedans of the same color. I know exactly how much gas is in the tank and how many miles are on the odometer. If you take it for a 'joy ride' I will know. You are not to eat, drink, smoke, or chew gum while driving my car. Do not change the radio station preset buttons. This will make me very unhappy. I expect servicing to take no more than two hours. If you do not have my car back in that time, I will call the police and report it stolen. Is this clear?"  
  
"I am so going to kill my mother," Rory says as she takes his keys and heads to the parking lot.  
  
"By the way, you have some dirt on your forehead," Kirk calls after her. To Michel, he asks, "Do you have any dry cleaning you need picked up?"  
  
Michel eyes him imperiously and resumes working.  
  
"I also walk dogs, except Chihuahuas. I've developed some sort of allergy to them that causes my throat to swell shut. I have the same reaction to certain types of mold." Kirk informs Michel.  
  
An hour and forty-five uneventful minutes later, Rory is back at the Inn. This time, Sookie is behind the front desk. Smiling, Rory approaches her.  
  
"Are you forsaking cooking to pursue a career in hotel reception?" Rory asks.  
  
"Hi Honey!" Sookie trills in greeting to Rory. "No, I'm just holding down the fort while your mom and Michel haggle with the insulation people. They are a cranky bunch. Go figure. Are you here to see your mom?"  
  
"Yep," Rory replies. "Or Michel. How long do you think they'll be?"  
  
"Probably not much longer. The yelling has died down so they must be finishing up."  
  
"I'll just wait in the lobby then."  
  
"Ok, sugar. Stop by the kitchen before you leave and I'll brew you some fresh coffee."  
  
"Thanks Sookie," Rory replies smiling broadly.  
  
Rory wanders into the lobby and sinks into an overstuffed armchair. Partially hidden behind a large potted palm, she exhales deeply and reaches into her book bag to retrieve The Lovely Bones. Opening the book to the marked page, she begins to read. The words, thick and lush, draw her into their world and Rory becomes captured in the thoughts of the dead, the actions of the living.  
  
"Are you hiding from me or the insulation people?" Lorelei asks. "At this point, I'd understand if it was either one of us, although I hope it's the insulation guys. I mean, it's not like they're the Hells Angels, but I swear, they're close."  
  
"It's neither," Rory assures her as she stands to stretch. Walking over to Lorelei, she hugs her.  
  
"Definitely them, huh? Good!" Lorelei deduces, returning the hug. Pulling away, she looks at Rory, "Was it terrible?"  
  
"Ugh. You owe me."  
  
"You can have my first born child. Oh wait. . . you are my first born child. Lucky you. Name your price, except for my first born which we've already covered why you can't have, and it's yours."  
  
"Well," Rory stalls. "I'm going to hold this promise until I need it."  
  
"Hmmm. . ." Lorelei states, narrowing her eyes. "What are you up to?"  
  
"Nothing specific," Rory grins. "Sometime in the future when I ask you for something, I am simply going to remind you that you owe me."  
  
"Oh, no. You are not getting a pony. We've been all through this."  
  
"I haven't wanted a pony since I was 12."  
  
"Don't try that reverse psychology on me. It won't work. No pony. That's final."  
  
"Did I mention that Sookie's making coffee."  
  
"No, and that should have been the first thing out of your mouth. Bad daughter! Bad!"  
  
The two women walk towards the kitchen together.  
  
"After all I've done for you today, you'd call me a bad daughter?"  
  
"Apparently, yes. Wait. . . I thought you were going to get Dean to take care of Michel's car."  
  
"That reminds me," Rory says, pulling Michel's keys out of her pocket and handing them to her mother. "Give these to him for me."  
  
"Oohh. . . did you leave something good in his car?"  
  
"I hung fuzzy dice on his rearview mirror," Rory answers grinning mischievously.  
  
"That's my girl!"  
  
The wonderful smell of fresh brewed coffee greets the pair as they enter the kitchen.  
  
Several coffees later, tired and contemplative, Rory decides to take the shortcut home. The grassy lawns of the Inn, made dry and coarse by the fall weather, crunch under her feet. Rory inwardly congratulates herself over her deft change of subject away from Dean when her mother had asked about him. 'I am smooth,' she thinks grinning.  
  
Nearing the bridge, she pauses, not entirely surprised to find a solitary figure sitting with his feet dangling off the side. He is smoking. She considers turning back but determines that her confident mood will sustain her through any potential encounter with Jess.  
  
As she nears the bridge, he looks back at her. 'He knew I was coming. Wonder how,' she muses. Sitting next to him she says, "I thought you quit smoking."  
  
"I'm a man of many vices," he replies.  
  
Silence falls upon them as they both stare across the water.  
  
"The Lovely Bones." Jess reads the title of the book in her hands.  
  
She follows his gaze to her lap. She is surprised to see she still holds the book in her hand. After pulling it from her backpack at the Inn, she had not gotten around to tucking it away.  
  
"It's good. Different. Have you read it?"  
  
"It's not out in paperback yet," he offers without further comment.  
  
Rory accepts his explanation.  
  
"It's about a 14-year old girl who is raped and murdered by a neighbor. When the book opens, she's already in heaven."  
  
"Sounds brutal."  
  
"I guess in parts, it is," she muses. "It's really rather beautiful. Because she died suddenly and violently, she wasn't ready to give up her life on earth. She maintains a connection to her physical self by keeping watch over her family. The book tells the story of the family she left behind as they move through their grief, but it's all relayed from the perspective of the dead girl."  
  
"Huh," is his only reply. He looks at her and wonders if she even remembers their earlier argument. 'If she was anyone else,' he thinks, 'I'd swear I was being played.' He concludes that Rory is incapable of intentionally keeping him off balance, confused. 'But does that make it any less wrong?' he questions silently.  
  
"It's interesting. Her heaven is her high school, which she dreamed of attending but never got to. She takes only art classes and gets tested on the current issue of Seventeen because that's what she wants. The book contends that heaven is different for everyone. You know, you create your own heaven based on what your idea of heaven is."  
  
Jess looks at her. Her heart beats faster. He looks at her neck studying her pulse. His gaze return to her face and he meets her eyes. He smirks. For some reason, this makes her blush.  
  
"So what about you?" she asks.  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"What will your heaven be like?"  
  
'This,' he thinks. He looks away from her to the water and instead says "I've never thought about it."  
  
"You've never thought about dying?" she asks.  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"You've thought about dying but never thought about what happens afterwards?"  
  
"Seemed like too much of a luxury. I've never let myself believe in things I can't see."  
  
"C'mon," she entreats. "Pretend."  
  
Growing uncomfortable, he asks more sharply than he means to, "What's your heaven like?"  
  
"Hmm. . ." she replies thinking. She looks down for a moment then turns back to him, "there's definitely coffee in my heaven."  
  
"I'm shocked."  
  
"And my house, and my stuff, and my mom. . ."  
  
"You heaven sounds a lot like here."  
  
She smiles.  
  
"I guess it does," she says. "My heaven is full of books. Not just the books I've read and loved but other books not found on earth. My heaven is full of authors who kept writing, even in death. Can you imagine A Confederacy of Dunces being simply the first book by John Kennedy Toole and not the only book by him? In the years since his suicide, he's been in heaven writing. His books are all there waiting for me. Not to mention new stuff by Ayn Rand, Jane Austen, C. S. Lewis, Alan Ginsberg. . ."  
  
"John Kennedy Toole leaving the world having only written one book is tragic."  
  
"Not to mention rude," she adds.  
  
"Ignatius J. Reilly. Now there's another character that rivals Owen Meany in the originality department."  
  
"Agreed," Rory smiles. "Ok, You've stalled long enough. I'd like your answer now please."  
  
"My answer to what?"  
  
"Jess, what's your heaven like?"  
  
Jess pauses. 'How can I even begin to answer that question?' he thinks. 'The only heaven I've ever known, I've found on the pages of a book. Or with her.' He decides to risk it.  
  
"Actually," he begins, making burning eye contact with Rory, "yours sounds pretty good. Mind if I share it?"  
  
She inhales sharply. She feels the sensation of cold that she used to get as a kid making angels in the snow. Tingling, it passes and she feels herself blush. Not trusting her voice, she doesn't speak. Instead, she looks at him and nods her head.  
  
He smiles.  
  
"You and me hanging out in heaven's library?" she asks when her breathing permits it.  
  
"I can think of worse things."  
  
"There is no smoking in my heaven," she warns.  
  
"I knew there'd be a catch."  
  
"Well, it's my heaven you're borrowing."  
  
"Will you at least allow Hemingway in the library?"  
  
"If it will make you happy, yes," she whispers.  
  
"Thanks," he whispers back.  
  
She feels an unfamiliar sensation. 'This must be how parachutists feel,' she thinks. She looks back over the water briefly before standing on shaky legs.  
  
"I have to go," she half explains, half apologizes.  
  
He simply nods. She picks up her backpack and book and walks down the bridge towards her house. Reaching the bank, she glances back over her shoulder to find him regarding her thoughtfully. She smiles shyly before ducking her head and walking home.  
  
Jess, too, feels an unfamiliar sensation. Absently, he thinks it might be love.  
  
. . .  
  
. . .  
  
A/N: I live for reviews. 


	4. JRR Tolkien

A/N: I stated in Chapter 3 that A Confederacy of Dunces was the only book written by John Kennedy Toole. I've just discovered that is not true. It's an incredible story. . . Toole committed suicide in his early 30s. After his death, his mother found the original manuscript for A Confederacy of Dunces and took it to Walker Percy (incidentally, my ex-boyfriend's favorite author) at Tulane University. Percy read it, loved it, and assisted in its posthumous publishing. The book won the Pulitzer prize, deservedly so. . . it's that good. After the success of Confederacy, his family found a second manuscript among Toole's possessions (this is the part I didn't know). It was a novella that he had written at 16-years of age for a writing contest. The family fought over the ownership of the second manuscript, which was disputed in court for more than 30 years! Ultimately, the court case was decided and the novella was published. I haven't read it but I wanted to mention my error. I'm writing to Jess and Rory right now to tell them too! Won't they be thrilled?  
  
Also, I've changed the category on this from angst/romance to drama/romance. It's not turning out to be as angst-y as I originally envisioned. Let's just chalk that up to YOUR feedback, which by the way is WONDERFUL! I can't even tell you how much I love hearing from you. To me, there is no such thing as a "bad" review. Seriously, I take criticism extremely well. Just ask Pretty Words Like Blades! LOL. Speaking of, shout outs to:  
  
Pretty Words Like Blades - Wow. Now, that is feedback! I'm honored you put such thought into helping me improve my writing skills. Thank you!  
  
Someone - I tried to email you to ease your literati mind but got a bounce. Clean out your yahoo mail account!  
  
Me (my anonymous Tolkien fan reviewer) - You are absolutely right. I stand before you chagrined. FYI . . . Your feedback sparked idea that I needed to stage this chapter. Therefore, this chapter is dedicated to you. (Feel free to sign in next time 'cause I mean it when I say that critical reviews don't offend me!)  
  
. . .  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
. . .  
  
Rory walks in the front door of her house, feeling happy, weightless. She suppresses the urge to giggle like an 11-year old. She hears his voice in her head, 'Actually, yours sounds pretty good. Mind if I share it?' A simple question asked beautifully. It had stolen her breath. A vision of his face at that moment - un-sarcastic, direct, almost vulnerable, floats in front of her. It felt like a moment with the real Jess. It felt like a gift. His voice echoes again in her head, 'Mind if I share it?' It was the most amazing thing anyone had ever said to her. Even Dean, romantic and sweet, had never said anything that left her feeling so giddy, so awake.  
  
Dean.  
  
She groans. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she moves her hand to cover them. 'DEAN is my boyfriend,' she reminds herself.  
  
'Dean IS my boyfriend.'  
  
'Dean is MY boyfriend.'  
  
'Dean is my BOYFRIEND.'  
  
Idly, her hand moves to her forehead where she fingers her bruise, the physical reminder of her first real conversation with Jess in months. Removing her hand, she studies herself in the hallway mirror.  
  
'Hi, my name is Rory and I'm a denial-holic.'  
  
Rolling her eyes, she walks into her bedroom, dropping her backpack and flopping on her bed. She tries to imagine Dean in her heaven, placing him next to her in heaven's library. The vision is laughable and she almost would if it weren't so completely un-funny. There is Dean in her heaven, 'and all he does is slouch in a chair and ask me if I'm ready to go every five minutes,' she envisions. 'That's really going to get on my nerves.'  
  
The bigger problem is that she just can't seem to pull Jess out of the picture. He lounges casually in a chair, reading a John Fante novel. She tries to erase him but he pops up again, wandering in Classical Philosophy. She removes him from the stacks but he saunters back in, offering her a biography he's found on Wendy O. Williams. Taking it, she tells his image to go away. Obediently, he vanishes but reappears at a Langston Hughes poetry reading. Like the card catalog or the Dewey Decimal System, Jess is a permanent fixture in heaven's library.  
  
Equally as troubling, she can't picture Jess and Dean in the same heavenly room. It's ridiculous. 'This is my mind,' she stubbornly resolves, 'I can picture them in a room together if I want to.'  
  
'Well,' answers her subconscious, 'You'd have to actually want both of them there.'  
  
'Shut up,' she tells her subconscious.  
  
It's ironic. She can't imagine her heaven with Dean and can't imagine it without Jess.  
  
Not for the first time, she finds herself at a loss for a solution. Slowly, the germ of an idea creeps into her mind like a cloud, vaporous and shifting, it takes solid shape. 'It's worth a shot,' Rory thinks, sitting up. She walks over to her bookshelf and searches the titles. Finding what she's looking for, she pulls it off the shelf and wanders into the living room. She plops the heavy book down on the coffee table where it hits with a commanding 'thunk.' The porcelain figurines on the fireplace mantle rattle slightly before stilling. Pleased with herself, Rory walks back into her bedroom to begin studying.  
  
As she opens her calculus textbook, a random thought skitters across her brain 'Heaven's library has great chairs.'  
  
Several hours have passed in which time Rory has completed her calculus homework and moved on to a paper assigned for her American History class. Her analysis of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution is interrupted by the ringing phone.  
  
"Hello?" Rory answers.  
  
"Ethel? It's Lucy," says a familiar voice  
  
"Hi mom," Rory smiles.  
  
"I'm completely stuck here. Two of Sookie's assistant chefs were riding into work together and got in some sort of car accident. Until they finish with the police, I'm sticking around to help her."  
  
"Umm. . . is that a good idea?" Rory asks suddenly concerned.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, define 'help her'."  
  
"Oh. . . Stand in the kitchen, keeping at least 5 feet between me and anything that resembles food, while I prevent Sookie from killing herself and everyone else unfortunate enough to get near her while she's in this mood."  
  
"That's a very appropriate use for your skills," Rory says exhaling.  
  
"Isn't it? Although if she needs me to stir something, I could probably do that."  
  
"Mom-"  
  
"Right. Sorry. Slipped into another dimension there for a minute but I'm back now."  
  
"That was a fast trip," Rory teases.  
  
"Jet lag from dimensional crossings is brutal but I'll survive. Anyways, don't wait on me for dinner because I may be here for awhile."  
  
"Dean is coming over soon," Rory tells her, glancing at the clock. "We'll just order a pizza or something."  
  
"Well, there you go," says Lorelai sounding happy. "Have fun, babe."  
  
"You too," Rory says hanging up the phone. She returns to her studies until she hears a knock on the door.  
  
She is not surprised to find Dean standing on the porch, holding a video.  
  
"Hi," Rory greets him, opening the door for him to enter. Her chest tightens involuntarily.  
  
"Hey," Dean says, smiling as he comes in. "How's your head?"  
  
"Oh, fine," she says dismissively as he leans down to place a chaste kiss on her lips. Rory, uncomfortable, accepts the kiss and immediately turns away to lead him into the living room.  
  
"What movie did you bring?" she asks, hoping she already knows the answer.  
  
"Fellowship of the Rings."  
  
Rory smiles widely.  
  
"Perfect!" she chirps.  
  
"Hmm," Dean replies. He smiles and knits his eyebrows together, "That's not exactly the reaction I expected."  
  
Rory walks to the coffee table and picks up the large book she placed there earlier. Still grinning, she hands it to him.  
  
"Lord of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien," Dean says, reading its cover. He shoots Rory a curious glance.  
  
"I thought since you like the movies so much, you'd enjoy the book," she states hopefully, excitedly. "It's much better than the movie."  
  
"It's 1,137 pages long," he tells her, flipping to the last page.  
  
"You don't have to read all the appendices."  
  
"OK, It's. . ." he pauses, searching for the end of the final chapter, "1,008 pages."  
  
"Yeah, but you won't even notice. It's so good, the pages fly by."  
  
Skeptical, he shakes his head and tries to hand the book back to her. "Reading's not really my thing," he says apologetically.  
  
"Just try it!" she pleads. "I think you'll really like it."  
  
"I already know what happens. I've seen the movies. This one," he gestures to the video he brought, "and The Two Towers. I don't need to read the book."  
  
"No, it's different. Peter Jackson changed things. The basic plot is intact but enough alterations were made that anyone who has read the trilogy would notice it's not a pure interpretation of Middle Earth. Story lines were omitted, new scenes were added and. . . I can't figure out why. I sat in the theatre thinking, 'where did that come from?' In my opinion, the story didn't need to be changed. Seriously, did Jackson think he could improve on Tolkien?"  
  
"I thought the movies were awesome."  
  
"Yeah, but the book is better," she entreats becoming desperate. "Tom Bombadil wasn't included in Fellowship of the Rings but Frodo almost gives the ring to him for safe keeping. Tom Bombadil is the spirit of the Old Forest in the same way that Treebeard is the spirit of Fangorn. Treebeard! There's another character who was altered. Treebeard is the oldest living creature and he's incredibly wise. When we meets Merry and Pippin, they tell him Gandalf is dead but Treebeard looks at them oddly because he has a bond with the earth and he hasn't felt Gandalf's death. He knows it isn't true. In the movie, Treebeard was like some big dumb sequoia. I just hated that-"  
  
"Rory-"  
  
"Oh, speaking of the Ents, they already know that Saruman had been destroying the trees. The movie shows them surprised when they arrive at Isengard and find it a vast wasteland, but they already knew. That's why they were mad enough to get involved in the first place. Not to mention that the Hurons, bewitched trees that were critical in the battle of Helm's Deep, never even made an appearance."  
  
"I just-"  
  
"Don't even get me started on the way the movies totally play down Aragorn's legacy as the rightful King of Gondor. The sword he carries is THE sword that slew Sauron. That's huge! My favorite scene in the book, which annoyingly got changed in the movie, is when Aragorn and company meet the Riders of the Riddermark and Eomer challenges them. Aragorn throws back his cape, unsheathes his sword, and says 'I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur Elendil's heir, the rightful king of Gondor. Here is the sword that brought down Sauron. Let me pass!' Well. . . he says something like that. . . you get the idea. He reveals himself and even Legolas and Gimli are awed-"  
  
"Rory! Stop!" Dean interrupts her rant.  
  
Startled, Rory bites her lower lip and looks at her feet. When she finally looks up to meet his eyes, he sees the defeated sadness in them. During her animated attempt at persuasion, a stay tendril of hair has come loose. His hand moves as if to tuck it behind her ear, but before she can stop herself, she backs away out of his reach. Quietly, she tucks the strand away herself. He looks puzzled but lets the moment pass without remark.  
  
"I don't enjoy reading," he explains. "At least, not the same way you do. I'd never read a 1,000-page book about a movie I've already seen. It's just not my idea of fun."  
  
"But Faramir is valiant," she implores in a small voice. Feeling the illusion that she can make Dean be the person she needs begin to slip through her fingers, she presses, "He's different from Boromir - Faramir never even considered taking the ring from Frodo. Just like Arwen never considered leaving Aragorn. Never."  
  
"It's OK. To me, the movies are still good. I don't care about the changes," he tells her placing the Tolkien tome back on the coffee table.  
  
Rory looks at him and feels her heart begin to break.  
  
"Dean, sit with me for a minute," she says pulling him onto the couch next to her. Her eyes cast about the room as if it contains a hint or suggestion of how she can make him understand what she needs to tell him next. She thinks about Jess and their conversation on the bridge. She looks back up at Dean.  
  
"Rory?" he questions, his eyes growing concerned. "Is something wrong?"  
  
'He's so sweet' she thinks as she feels herself start to waiver. From the dark recesses of her mind a quote whispers to her, 'Screw your courage to the sticking-place.' She is momentarily distracted by the oddness of Lady MacBeth providing her with help during her moment of indecision.  
  
"Uh. . . Rory?"  
  
'Screw your courage to the sticking-place,' the voice commands.  
  
"Dean, what's your heaven like?" she asks, curious.  
  
"My heaven? What do you mean?"  
  
"When you picture heaven, what do you see?"  
  
"I dunno," he says puzzled. "Clouds, angels with harps. . ."  
  
"No. I mean, if you could create your own heaven, custom tailored so it's perfect for you, what would it be like?"  
  
"Hmm. . ." he ponders the question. A smile breaks out on his face and he says "All sports, all the time!"  
  
Rory sighs.  
  
"It would have a regulation basketball court bordered by an Olympic-sized pool on one side and a football field on the other. The football field needs to be surrounded by a track ring. Oh, I'll need a hockey rink and a climbing wall. I also want a locker room with free weights, a sauna, whirlpool. . . the works."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"And my house will be full of wide screen TVs so I can keep track of all my favorite teams. My heaven gets cable." he informs her grinning.  
  
Her heart breaks fully in two. 'He was the world's most amazing first boyfriend,' she thinks.  
  
As Dean notices the look on Rory's face, his smile begins to fade. He leans closer to her. "Rory, please tell me what's wrong with you," he implores.  
  
"I'm going to miss you, Dean," she says simply, without prelude.  
  
Her words smart like a burn and he recoils.  
  
"What do you mean 'you'll miss me'? Are you going somewhere?" he questions, hoping he has misread the look on her face, the signs of goodbye in her eyes.  
  
"I can't do this anymore," she says simply.  
  
"Rory. . ."  
  
"It's better this way. You deserve someone who will appreciate all the wonderful things about you."  
  
"Oh my God," he says realization hitting him like a truck. "You're breaking up with me." His blood freezes, his chest burns. He can taste disbelief on his tongue, in his mouth. It tastes bitter.  
  
"I wish there was a way to make you understand."  
  
"You're breaking up with me because of a book?" he asks incredulously, his eyes falling on The Lord of the Ring.  
  
"No," she tries to explain. "I'm breaking up with you because we're too different. We want different things. We'll never be able to make each other happy. I mean, truly happy."  
  
"This is crazy. I've tried to make you happy. I care about you, Rory."  
  
"I know," she answers, her eyes beginning to tear.  
  
"I'll read the damn book."  
  
"It's not that simple."  
  
"Well then please explain it to me because I'm at a loss."  
  
"Things have been going bad for a long, long time. You've grown jealous and I'm tired of defending myself, walking on eggshells. You're always mad. I'm always worried. Every time we're together, it's a compromise for one of us because our interests are completely divergent."  
  
"This is about Jess isn't it?" he asks standing up. His voice is hard, his fists, clenched.  
  
"No, it's about us."  
  
"Tell me the truth for once, Rory. You want to be with Jess."  
  
"Don't twist this - it's not about Jess. It's about you and me. We're wrong for each other. Jess or no Jess, you and I don't work. We just don't. I am not the person you think I am. I'm not the one for you. In your heart, you know I'm right."  
  
"Being right is overrated," Dean answers sharply. Angry and frustrated, he walks across the living room. "He'll never love you like I do, Rory."  
  
"Don't go there," she warns, following him to the door.  
  
"And I do, you know," he says faltering as he reaches for the door knob. "Love you, I mean."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry."  
  
"Then don't do this," he implores.  
  
"I should have done it months ago. I. . . It's not. . ." Stumbling over words she doesn't really want to say, she looks in his eyes and the truth, denied for so long, tumbles out. "I don't love you, Dean. Not the way you need me to."  
  
He turns on his heel and walks out the door without another word or backward glance. Rory watches him walk down her porch stairs and across the yard. The tears she had held back begin to stream down her face.  
  
"Bye, Dean," she whispers.  
  
Numb and hurting, Rory makes her way to her bedroom. Crawling onto her bed, she lies on her side and curls into a tight, tiny ball. Her tears flow unchecked, unabated. As guilt washes over her, Rory loses track of time.  
  
"I'm home," Lorelai's voice announces as if the crashing sound made by her entrance isn't announcement enough.  
  
"Please tell me there's some of that pizza leftover," she says walking into the kitchen. Seeing no sign of pizza, or anything else for that matter, she wanders into the living room.  
  
"Rory?" Lorelai calls. "You here? Rory, where are you?"  
  
Peeking her head into Rory's room, she spies her daughter still lying in a fetal position on her bed.  
  
"Rory?" Lorelai says softly, walking into the room. "Are you OK?"  
  
"Oh, mom," Rory chokes sitting up and holding out her arms.  
  
Lorelai immediately goes to her, sitting on Rory's bed and wrapping her in an embrace. Fresh tears slip from Rory's eyes and spill onto Lorelai's shoulder. Lorelai smoothes her hair and makes comforting noises while Rory sobs.  
  
At length, Lorelai says, "Honey, what happened? Can you talk about it yet?"  
  
Sniffing and wiping her eyes, Rory moves out of her mother's embrace and sits back slightly.  
  
"I broke up with Dean."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I took the heart of a perfectly good boyfriend and I crushed it like a grape."  
  
"Oh, sweetie."  
  
"I think something is fundamentally wrong with me. Why couldn't I love him? I mean, in that love-love way. He wanted me to so badly, but I just didn't."  
  
"Nothing is wrong with you, honey. You can't help how you feel. Love can't be forced, it just happens or it. . . doesn't. Trust me on this one."  
  
"I tried so hard to love him, mom," Rory says forlornly. "I kept waiting to feel like he was something other than my brother or my puppy."  
  
"A mighty big puppy," Lorelai smiles.  
  
"It's not funny," Rory insists, starting to smile.  
  
"More like a pet giraffe."  
  
"Stop it," Rory commands starting to laugh, wiping her eyes. "Stop making me feel better. I don't want to feel better. I want to feel terrible and think sad thoughts. I don't deserve to feel better. I deserve to walk through life alone and unloved for tormenting the world's most perfect boyfriend."  
  
"You're being awfully hard on yourself."  
  
"I'm a terrible evil person."  
  
"You're definitely not evil. And what you deserve is someone who thinks you're amazing, because you are. You deserve to feel the exact same way about someone else. When it finally happens for you, and that's 'when', not 'if', it's going to be incredible."  
  
Rory looks at her skeptically.  
  
"I tell you the truth, child. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you," Lorelai says reassuringly.  
  
"Why didn't I love him then?"  
  
"Because you didn't."  
  
"But I should have."  
  
"But you didn't."  
  
"I really really wanted to."  
  
"I know. Love doesn't work that way."  
  
"Maybe it's a fever. Maybe I should see a doctor."  
  
"I think it's nothing that Ben & Jerry's Super Fudge Chunk won't cure. Well, that and time."  
  
"Time. Ugh. This is going to suck," Rory groans, falling backwards on the bed.  
  
"Which is why we need the ice cream. It decreases the suck factor."  
  
Rory smiles weakly as Lorelai stands to go to the kitchen. At Rory's bedroom door, she turns back.  
  
"Sometimes, doing the right thing means doing the hard thing. Breaking up with Dean was in the category of hard. . . like running a marathon while carrying a teaspoon of water that you're not allowed to spill hard. But you know what? You did it."  
  
"Yeah, I did," sniffs Rory.  
  
"I'm proud of you, babe."  
  
"You mean that?" Rory whispers.  
  
"Don't ever doubt it," Lorelai states, smiling warmly at her daughter.  
  
Returning with the ice cream carton and two spoons, Lorelai hands one to Rory.  
  
"About Jess. . ." Lorelai begins as she digs into the ice cream.  
  
"Please mom. Don't," Rory responds, her mouth full.  
  
"I was going to say. . . give that some time too. Processing Emotion A before leaping into Emotion B is generally a good idea. Not that I've ever done it myself but I hear it's the way to go."  
  
"Recommended by 4 out of 5 dentists?"  
  
"Them too. And. . . by Emotion A, I mean how you feel about the breakup with Dean. Emotion B is how you feel about Jess."  
  
"Yeah, I figured. I appreciate the clarification anyway though."  
  
"Oh, anytime."  
  
They eat ice cream in companionable silence.  
  
"We're going to need coffee too," Rory realizes.  
  
"I started a pot brewing when I got the ice cream," Lorelai grins.  
  
"Good thinking," Rory smiles back.  
  
They are silent, one lost in thoughts about how something has ended; the other, older and wiser, recognizing that tonight, in fact, something has begun.  
* * * * * * *  
  
A/N: And he's going, going, gone. . . say goodbye to Dean everyone! That was a kinder gentler breakup scene than the one I originally envisioned where he gets abducted by aliens. Fear not, literati junkies. . . there is definite Rory and Jess action in the future of this fic but please be patient while I work my way there. Reviews make me write faster. Seriously, it's a weird phenomenon. Thanks all! 


	5. Tom Stoppard

A/N: Thank you for all your reviews!! I can't tell you how much I love you guys!! I got some positive feedback about the passages I wrote in first-person so I'm trying a bit more of it, both from Rory's and Jess' perspective. Please let me know if you like it or if it's just irritating (it's new for me, you know?) Actually, to do it right takes a bit more page space so this chapter is longer.  
  
Personal note to 'Me' - yes, I do have a volume of Lord of the Rings that contains the entire trilogy. It's paperback (read: cheap, like retailing under $20) and was purchased at Border books. I've also seen it at Barnes and Noble.  
  
Disclaimer: I so don't own the Gilmore Girls.  
  
Get ready folks. The literati Olympics are about to begin!  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
The water is hot, near scalding. I stand under it, letting it beat on my shoulders, my back. I've washed twice, hair and body, hoping to rid myself of all traces of last night that might still be clinging to me. It didn't work, not exactly, but I feel better anyway. My skin is bright pink from the heat and my fingertips are wrinkled. I suppose that means it's time to get out of the shower and face the day. One last time I turn into the heavy stream, feeling the stinging prickle of the water as it hits my face. Turning it off, I catch my breath and climb out of the shower.  
  
The steam filled room is comforting and I dry myself slowly. I want to see if I look different now but the mirror is a mask of fog and condensation. I wipe it with one hand, pushing aside the clinging mist to reveal its reflective surface. Staring at myself, I see that the puffiness in both my eyes and face has receded, probably melted by the heat. Definitely a good sign. Yes, I look better. More importantly, I feel better, cleaner inside and out. I allow myself a half smile, inching the corners of my mouth up before I lean over to wrap my hair in a towel.  
  
Rising up, a pang of guilt slices through me as I wonder how Dean is doing this morning. Probably not great, I conclude. Sweet Dean who is all wrong for me. My mind involuntarily drifts to Jess who is, at least in the eyes of this town, probably all wrong for me too. I can't help it though, something about him feels decidedly un-wrong. I think about the way his eyes search mine and how he seems to know what I'm thinking, even when I'm not sure myself. He must be at work by now, helping Luke. I picture him scowling through the diner, taking orders, filling coffee cups. I'm seized by a crazy urge to write his name in the mirror fog just to see what it would look like there, how the letters would fit in my space. I shake it off by brushing my teeth.  
  
Opening the bathroom door, I'm greeted by the wonderful aroma of coffee, which means two things - I can get my first fix of the day and mom's awake. Tightening my robe around me, I wander into the kitchen.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
Despite the winter season, the Gilmore kitchen is bathed in sunlight. The elder Gilmore looks up and smiles warmly at her daughter.  
  
"Morning sweetie. Feeling better?" Lorelai greets Rory.  
  
"Mmmm," Rory responds, reaching in the cabinet for a coffee mug.  
  
"Nothing like a 2-hour shower to start the day."  
  
"Yep. I'm all prune-y," Rory yawns, lifting up her palms up for her mother's inspection.  
  
"Like a geezer's dream. So. . . How do you feel about going to Lukes?"  
  
"Oh. . . Umm. . ." Rory hesitates.  
  
"Relax. You just broke up with him, like, five minutes ago. Not even the Stars Hollow grapevine works that fast," Lorelai reasons with her. "It will be like when Julia Roberts broke up with Benjamin Bratt and no one even knew it until she married that other guy."  
  
"Didn't Benjamin get married first?"  
  
"I thought Julia did."  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
"Well, my point is, unless Dean married someone else between the time of your breakup last night and breakfast this morning, I doubt anyone else will even have heard about it."  
  
Their conversation is interrupted by a knock at the front door. Both women look at each other, puzzled.  
  
"Are you expecting someone?" Lorelai asks.  
  
"No. You?"  
  
"No. Quick, grab the squirt guns," Lorelai commands. "I'm getting a Jehovah's Witnesses vibe."  
  
"The squirt guns have been missing since the Labor Day parade of 2001."  
  
"Ah yes. One of our finer water moments. I'll never forget the look on Kirk's face when we ambushed him. Hey, that's something we can do today. Buy new squirt guns! We should get one of those water balloon launchers too."  
  
The visitor knocks again.  
  
"Maybe you should answer the door first," Rory suggests.  
  
"No way! You get it."  
  
"I'm not dressed," Rory states, gesturing to her robe. "You're dressed, therefore you should answer the door."  
  
"Fine," Lorelai concedes. "But if this is anyone wanting to talk to me about my personal salvation, I'm cooking breakfast for you and forcing you to eat it."  
  
"You wouldn't!"  
  
"Paybacks, my child," Lorelai taunts raising her eyebrows, "are indeed a bitch."  
  
Lorelai opens the front door and greets the person standing on the porch.  
  
"Babette," Lorelai chirps. "Hey."  
  
"Hello dear," Babette answers, pushing past her and walking straight to Rory. "Oh Rory, honey," she coos, concern etched on her face as she puts a hand on Rory's shoulder. "How are you holding up?" Turning to Lorelai, she says, "She's not even dressed yet. It's worse than I expected."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Rory questions, confused.  
  
"Well, I baked you this coffee cake. I know how much you girls like coffee," Babette responds, walking into the kitchen and setting a Tupperware container on the counter. "It ain't much but times like these are so trying for teenage girls."  
  
"Uh. . . Times like what?" Lorelai questions.  
  
"Well, breakups," Babette states as if she's explaining herself to a 2-year old. To Rory she says, "I know you loved Dean honey, but things will get better. Heartbreak doesn't last forever. In a year or two, you won't even think about it everyday."  
  
"Oh my God!" Rory exclaims, looking right at Lorelai. "Dean got married!"  
  
"Did he?" Babette questions excitedly.  
  
"Wow," Lorelai states, amazement obvious in her voice. "Score one for the Stars Hollow grapevine."  
  
Reeling, Rory bolts into her bedroom.  
  
Lorelai sighs.  
  
"Babette, Rory is fine," she explains. "She's actually the one who broke up with Dean."  
  
"Oh! That's not what I heard."  
  
"Well, you heard wrong."  
  
"She's OK, then?"  
  
"Mostly," Lorelai states. "At least, we're not at that bring-food-over- because-I-can't-leave-her-side-long-enough-to-toast-her-a-poptart level of trauma. In fact, if you want to take your coffee cake back, I'm sure she'd understand."  
  
"Don't be silly, honey. You girls enjoy it! I gotta go call Patty anyways."  
  
"You do that," Lorelai responds flatly, opening the front door so Babette can exit.  
  
Closing the door, Lorelai makes her way to Rory's room. Knocking gently, she pushes the door open to find Rory in her bed with the covers pulled over her head.  
  
"Is she gone?" Rory moans.  
  
"She just left," Lorelai responds, sitting on Rory's bed.  
  
"Change in plans."  
  
"OK, fill me in."  
  
"I'm going to stay right here all day long. The wallowing officially begins now."  
  
"Or, you could come to Lukes with me."  
  
"I really need to count the threads in this sheet. I've been meaning to do that. Are these Egyptian cotton?"  
  
"Or, you could come to Lukes with me."  
  
"This is the perfect opportunity to hone my henna tattooing skills. I'm thinking one would look nice circling my belly button. What should I go with, Elvis or Beavis?"  
  
"Or, you could come to Lukes with me."  
  
"I should stay home and practice my yodeling. It's true what they say, if you don't yodel everyday, you lose your edge."  
  
"Or-" Lorelai begins.  
  
"I think I have that rare projectile form of leprosy. Probably I shouldn't be around people."  
  
"You know what cures that?"  
  
Pulling the sheet off her head, Rory looks at her mother. "What?"  
  
"Pancakes and Luke's coffee."  
  
Rory rolls her eyes.  
  
"Really, I just read about it in the New England Journal of Medicine. They're calling it the newest miracle cure. Johns Hopkins is sending a team of pathologists to Luke's Diner to study his pancake-coffee leprosy treatment."  
  
"Everybody knows mom," Rory states plaintively.  
  
"Yeah. I think they do."  
  
"I can't stand the thought of all those people talking about me, feeling sorry for me."  
  
"Look on the bright side, we could wind up with lots more coffee cake."  
  
Rory pulls the sheet back over her head.  
  
"Honey, if everyone knows, then they know. Hiding in your bedroom isn't going to change that. Postponing facing people just means living with the dread of it longer. If you come out with me now, you can get it over with and this will blow away."  
  
Rory peeps out from under the sheet. Her eyes look unconvinced.  
  
"Are you sorry you broke up with Dean?" Lorelai asks.  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, then you're going to have to live with your decision and face the residents of Stars Hollow eventually. You can either rip the band-aid off slowly and painfully, or rip it off quickly and painfully. It's your choice," Lorelai reasons.  
  
"You're kinda making sense. Seriously, I think I may have a fever. Feel my head," Rory commands pulling Lorelai's hand to her forehead.  
  
"Nope. No fever. However, that bruise is going away."  
  
"Well, that's one good thing."  
  
"That's the spirit! Keep looking on the bright side and get dressed. We leave in 15 minutes."  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
Mom and I walk into Luke's Diner, making the little bell ring. It feels as though time pauses temporarily while everyone looks at me. The world slows, the diner patrons stare in slow motion, I blink. In a heartbeat, time is normal again. I'm probably just imagining it but my face reddens anyway. Irritated and feeling exposed, I stare at my feet.  
  
"Counter or table?" mom asks me.  
  
"Table," I answer quickly, vehemently. The thought of being on a high stool in clear view at the front of the diner is, to put it mildly, unappealing.  
  
Mom looks at me oddly and I mumble, "Definitely a table."  
  
We sit and Luke appears as if by magic with two cups of coffee.  
  
"Oh wow," mom says. "I didn't even have to beg or anything. I had a great speech planned too."  
  
"Save it for tomorrow," Luke advises her. To me he says, softer, "How are you doing?"  
  
Instantly, I realize that Luke knows about Dean. 'He's trying to be kind,' I remind myself while I desperately try not to connect the dots that lead from Luke's knowledge of my relationship's demise to what his nephew may know, must know.  
  
"I'm fine," I tell him, meeting his eyes. "Really."  
  
"What can I get you for breakfast?" he asks.  
  
"She needs pancakes for her leprosy," mom informs him.  
  
"Right," Luke answers, so used to my mom's non sequiturs that he doesn't even try to figure out what she's talking about. A flood for affection for him rises in me and I grin at him. Mom notices.  
  
"Pancakes for me too, please," she says, smiling broadly and gratefully at Luke.  
  
Momentarily struck by the expression on her face, Luke looks startled but recovers quickly, fumbling with the coffee pot and muttering "coming right up." If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was blushing.  
  
"Coffee without begging. You should break up with Dean more often."  
  
"Mom!"  
  
"Sorry sorry sorry sorry," she says, her eyes wide, apologetic.  
  
"Rory," Kirk's voice calls to me. "I've been waiting for you to get here."  
  
"Hi Kirk," I say, unenthusiastically.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear about your breakup with Dean. I brought you this book from my personal collection. I think it will help ease your transition back into the single life," he says, handing me a well-worn paperback. "I find this one quite useful."  
  
My stomach lurches just thinking about what kind of reading material Kirk would favor but eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me and I take the book from him.  
  
"What to do with your life when you are unloved," I read, looking at the book's cover.  
  
"Yes," Kirk intones. "There is a particularly interesting passage about dying alone that I've earmarked for you. You should probably read that chapter first-"  
  
"Kirk," mom interrupts. "You know, I was at Doose's market yesterday and overheard Taylor talking about how he'd like you to shoot a commercial for him."  
  
"Really? A commercial?" Kirk asks suddenly disinterested in me.  
  
"Oh yeah, to advertise the grocery store. Something about expanding marketing efforts to increase his customer base. I didn't get the details but I gather he's thinking about asking you to direct his TV commercial. He was impressed by the talent you displayed in your movie."  
  
"Well, it's gratifying to know that someone in this town appreciates my art. I'd better get right over there and talk to him about it."  
  
"You know what they say. . . No time like the present."  
  
"Do you think he'd dress like a super hero?" Kirk asks mom. "Because I have some ideas."  
  
"Oh, you should definitely ask him about that," mom answers in mock seriousness.  
  
Kirk leaves without another look in my direction. His book rests sadly on our table  
  
"Mean!" I say smiling, at mom.  
  
"You're welcome," she winks.  
  
Suddenly, there he is. How long has he been in the room? Did he overhear Kirk? Inhaling sharply, I feel my heart skip a beat as I watch Jess set plates of eggs, bacon, and sausage on a table near me. I'm openly staring at him, which is unlike me but I can't tear my eyes away. He glances at me briefly, his expression unchanging, his eyes, unreadable.  
  
I keep staring as Mom darts off on one of those tangents that she's so prone to, the tangents that I adore. I try to follow the thread of her conversation, give her my attention but it's impossible and eventually I only pretend to listen. Jess retreats into the kitchen and I finally gain control over my faculties. I have to stop this soon or everyone will know what's in my mind just by looking at my face, including him. I shut my eyes briefly, marveling at the astonishing control he seems to have over me already. Staring at my hands seems safer so that's what I do. All I'm capable of right now is feeling the nearness of Jess' presence and the butterflies in my stomach.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
God, it must be true. I heard the talk but didn't believe it, couldn't believe it. Rory and Dean break up? Things like that just don't happen here in the Magic Kingdom. This is the kind of place where the homecoming queen dates the captain of the football team and guys like me date girls like Shane. Yet, all morning people have been 'poor Dean-ing' and 'they seemed so happy, it can't be true-ing'. I tuned them out, certain that the rumor mill had gotten it wrong this time. Whoever said there are no secrets in small towns was probably from Stars Hollow.  
  
Not that this changes anything for me. I mean, it's not like she left Dean so she could be with me. If I were anyone else, the intensity of her stare just now would lead me to conclude that she has some sort of interest in me. The thing is, I'm not anyone else. I'm a city boy and I know you can't trust that female shit. It's ridiculous. Rory Gilmore like me? I don't have that kind of luck. Still, my mind tortures me, telling me that she must feel the same electric current I feel when our eyes meet. The current that makes me want to crush her to me in all of her innocence and kiss her, fiercely, deeply. Leave her burning and enlightened. I want to see her eyes glaze over and hear a breathy sound form in the back of her throat. I imagine feeling her tremble when my hands land on her hips, slide to her back, pull her close. Her small, firm body pressed against mine, her fingers in my hair. A guttural sound threatens to emerge from me but I swallow it.  
  
What the hell is wrong with me? Of all the girls I've known in my life, why is it the small town virginal princess that affects me this way? This game is not new to me. I've been with women, more than I can count. I fucking know better than to let myself get pulled in so completely and yet, I did it anyway. Here I stand. . . her fool. How has one kiss from her gotten me so completely under her spell, left me at her mercy? I'm in the palm of her goddamn hand and I hate it. Damn her books and the way she reads. Damn her sarcastic wit. Damn her purity. Damn the way she challenges me, ties me up in knots. Damn her blue eyes. Damn the way she makes me want her.  
  
Oh God, she's so beautiful.  
  
I'm weak, defeated, but I don't want her to see it. Not today.  
  
'Still,' I think, the corners of my mouth tugging slightly upwards, 'she did break up with Bag Boy.' It's a start.  
  
I pull myself together and emerge from the kitchen in time to see Luke setting their food in front of them. Rory is watching me, spying, always spying. This game feels familiar too and I pretend not to notice. Accepting my assigned role, I stay behind the counter and brew a fresh pot of coffee.  
  
It's apparently Miss Patty's turn to console Rory. Can't these people see that she just wants to be left alone? Privacy is an undervalued commodity in this town. Good thing because it's in short supply. I pick up a rag and wipe down the counter so I can get closer to their table. Yeah, I'm eavesdropping. So what?  
  
". . . and I was so upset that I stopped eating. Unfortunately, I mainly lost weight in my chest. It was just terrible, my costumes were too loose and in the middle of a performance at the Tropicana in Miami, my top slipped down and I flashed Tito Puente," Miss Patty rambles.  
  
Oh no! Bad visual. I bend down so no one can see the look of horror that has just overtaken my face.  
  
"Really Miss Patty," Rory interrupts. "I appreciate your empathy but I'm fine. I'm the one who broke up with Dean. It was my idea."  
  
"Of course it was, dear," I hear Miss Patty say. She sounds patronizing and my heart goes out to Rory. This town doesn't want her to be anything but a powerless little girl.  
  
"It was!" Rory protests. "Why is that so hard for everyone to believe? I broke up with Dean. Me! I did it! He did not break up with me this time. I was the break-er-upper, he was the break-ee."  
  
OK, she's making up words now. She's either really upset or she's channeling Lorelai. I'm gonna go with upset.  
  
I hear Lorelai saying something softly, I can't quite make out her words but I'm sure they're designed to calm Rory down. It doesn't seem to be working as Rory appears agitated, fidgety. Hell, I think it would be good for Rory to get pissed, to stand up for herself. 'Don't take that crap from them Rory,' I think grinning to myself.  
  
Miss Patty walks away and Rory shoots me a look. I focus on my wiping but can tell that her eyes are lingering on me. A visual caress from Rory Gilmore? It'll do for now.  
  
Inspiration striking, I whip out my order pad, rip one of the pages off and flip it over. Pulling my pen from behind my ear, I write a short message on it. I fold it up and wait for my opportunity. It comes in the form of Luke.  
  
He walks out to their table to refill their coffee mugs and engages Lorelai in that flirt-banter thing they do. 'Uncle Luke's got it bad,' I think as I approach their table.  
  
Pausing briefly, I lean slightly and press the folded paper into Rory's hand. Startled, she looks up at me. I hold her gaze for a moment before her fingers close around the note. In just that instant, her fingers brush against mine and I feel their heat as tiny fireworks explode just under my skin. I'm gone as quickly as I came, continuing my stride to a recently vacated table that I start busing.  
  
I feel her eyes on me again but ignore her completely, walking back into the kitchen.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
My hand is on fire from his touch and it shakes slightly. Dean and I had entire make out sessions that didn't leave me as affected as one touch on my hand from Jess. I take the paper he's given me and slip it in my pocket. Glancing around the diner, I see that no one has noticed our exchange. Jess is like vapor, like water. When he wants to be, he is utterly invisible.  
  
My pager goes off and I pull it out of my coat pocket.  
  
"What's it say?" mom asks me, her mouth full of pancake.  
  
"It says. 'Church. Breakup!? Music therapy. Noon. Here.'"  
  
"Lane?"  
  
"Who else could it be?"  
  
"Is that some sort of secret code?"  
  
"No. She's telling me she's stuck in Korean church all day, it is Sunday after all. She's heard about my breakup." Pausing I look up at my mother. "How do you think she heard about the breakup if she's been in church all day?" I ask, puzzled.  
  
"Lane is a phenomenon. She probably has a video surveillance network covering the entire town."  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, she's pulled out some CDs that she thinks will make me feel better and I should meet her at her house at noon to pick them up."  
  
"Wow. She's getting pretty verbose in her pages these days."  
  
"It's almost noon now," I reply looking at my watch. Shoving the last bite of pancake in my mouth and draining my coffee mug, I say to mom, "Is it OK if I-"  
  
"Go."  
  
"Thanks," I grin.  
  
I shrug on my coat and bolt out of the door, happy to have survived my first post-Dean public appearance. I breathe deeply and the cool air fills my lungs. As I walk past the diner's front window, I feel his gaze upon me. I turn slightly to verify this sensation with my eyes and discover that I was right. His eyes hold mine and he smirks, just barely though. I return his grin and keep walking.  
  
As soon as I'm out of sight, my hand fishes into my pocket and pulls out his note. I read it slowly to savor every word. It says,  
  
'I believe in mess, tears, pain, self-abasement, loss of self-respect, nakedness. Not caring doesn't seem much different from not loving. -Tom Stoppard, The Real Thing.'  
  
I feel my knees get weak. Somewhat lightheaded, I stop and grab a pole to steady myself. Clutching his note, I read it again.  
  
'Jess,' I think. 'You are going to be trouble.'  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
"Luke!" Jess shouts. "I'm taking my break."  
  
"15 minutes, Jess," Luke calls out to Jess' departing back as he slips out the front door.  
  
Lost in thought, Jess heads to the park across the street and slouches on a bench. The town troubadour wanders by with his guitar, singing an old Credence Clearwater Revival song.  
  
'Crazy fucking town,' Jess thinks as he lights a cigarette.  
  
Rory is on her way back from Lane's house with an overfilled sack of CDs ranging from maudlin angst-ridden music to thrash rock. Rory grins as she remembers Lane slipping her the bag quickly from its hiding place under the Kim front porch. 'Music for every possible breakup mood,' Lane had assured her. A quick hug later and she was gone, back to Korean Sunday school.  
  
Rory feels unsettled, like a caged bird that, when set free, hangs around its cage because it doesn't know what else to do. On impulse, she decides not to head home yet but instead wander wherever her feet choose to take her. It was an unusual feeling, this newfound freedom. It coursed through her veins powerfully. She felt older, freer. Claiming her liberty for the first time in, well, years really, she walks more confidently, her destination simply 'someplace interesting'.  
  
'It doesn't get more interesting than that,' she muses spotting Jess in the town square. She makes her way to his bench.  
  
"Why is it that every time I see you lately you're smoking?" she asks, sitting next to him.  
  
"You saw me earlier today in the diner and I wasn't smoking," he counters, smirking at her.  
  
"Only because Luke doesn't let you."  
  
Jess looks at her out of the corner of his eye but says nothing, studying her.  
  
"Don't expect me to visit you in the hospital when you have emphysema," she informs him.  
  
"You know, if you keep talking about my health, I might start thinking that you actually care about me."  
  
Rory colors and decides to change the subject.  
  
"So. . . Tom Stoppard. I didn't know you read plays."  
  
"There are lots of things you don't know about me," he answers evasively, exhaling smoke.  
  
"OK, for now, let's start with your favorite Stoppard play."  
  
"Hmm. . ." he pauses, stubbing out his cigarette. "For it's commentary on the ordinary human condition, The Real Thing. For humor, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. For angst and loss of innocence, Empire of the Sun. For sheer brilliance, Shakespeare in Love."  
  
"That's kind of a cop-out, picking four instead of just one."  
  
"That's the most honest answer I can give you."  
  
"Well," she admits. "Of those, I've only read The Real Thing. I've seen the movies made from the other three but never actually read the screenplays."  
  
"You should."  
  
"Maybe I will."  
  
"What do you remember of The Real Thing?" Jess asks.  
  
"Wow, a lot of stuff about truth and love."  
  
"Specifically, what?" he presses.  
  
"Well, that love, real love, is about knowing and being known. That knowledge of another person, not carnal knowledge but really knowing someone when their mask is off and they're just. . . himself or herself, that's what it's about."  
  
Jess regards her thoughtfully. Rory feels compelled to continue.  
  
"I don't remember it specifically but there's a scene in The Real Thing where the husband asks the wife if he's cheating, which, you know, she isn't, but she's been distracted by someone else. He guesses at what she's feeling and describes it almost exactly. The passage is beautiful."  
  
"'A small quickening. The room responds slightly to being entered. Like a raised blind. Nothing intended, and a long way from doing anything, but you catch the glint of being someone else's possibility.'" Jess quotes.  
  
"Oh my God, that's it," she breathes. She marvels that, despite her poor description, he knew just what she was talking about. 'How is this possible?' she wonders, reeling.  
  
Jess looks away, feeling a similar sensation of connection to her.  
  
"How are you?" he questions.  
  
Rory groans. She is instantly snapped back to the present.  
  
"If one more person asks me how I'm doing since breaking up with Dean, I swear I'll scream."  
  
"Yeah, but the difference is, I actually care."  
  
"So the 700 other people who've asked me that question today, don't care about my answer?"  
  
"I guess on some level they do, but I think mainly they're just nosy."  
  
"I'm fine," she sighs, fixing her eyes on him.  
  
"Good," he smiles.  
  
They're quiet for a minute.  
  
"I should get back to the diner," he says, standing.  
  
"Yeah, I should go home," she says, standing too.  
  
"I'll see you around."  
  
"Yeah. . ."  
  
Jess turns and strides back into the diner. Rory watches him walk. Once inside, he takes off his coat and hangs it on the coat rack. She is glued to her spot, staring through the diner's front window, fixated. He looks back at her and meets her gaze. Caught, she snaps out of her stupor. Flushing deeply, she turns and runs home.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
A/N: I was going to include the scene with Lane but the chapter was getting too long. Lane will enter the story later if I can figure out how to write her well.  
  
Thanks for reading this far and if anything strikes you, anything at all, please leave me a review. I'd love to hear what you like or don't like. It's tremendously helpful and let's me create a better story. Thanks! 


	6. Larry McMurtry

A/N: God Bless everyone who reviewed!! May you have blue skies above you and green lights in front of you. Your comments and encouragements have been incredibly helpful and if I could bake cupcakes for each one of you, I swear I would!  
  
Special notes to:  
  
Pretty Words Like Blades: Are you an English professor? If not you could/should be! THANK YOU for your thoughtful, insightful reviews and internal conflict writing tips. I'm humbled, honored, and a better writer because of your attention.  
  
SomeoneNamedMe: Thank you for your kind reminder that people from all walks of life read these fics. I sincerely did not mean to offend and apologize for the slight (and promise that I would never squirt you or your dad with water or anything else if you knocked on my door!)  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
"RORY!"  
  
Jumping slightly, I snap my head up.  
  
"What?" I breathe, eyes wide.  
  
"The quotes," Paris intones, sounding exasperated.  
  
"Quotes?" I question meekly.  
  
"Have you heard a single word I've said?" she snaps, narrowing her eyes at me. "If you have more important things to do with your afternoon, please don't let us hold you up."  
  
'Us?' I think. The Seattle-rain-haziness that has been my day lifts slowly, gradually, like curtain sheers being drawn. As I focus my vision around the table, the faces of the other Associated Student Government members come into view. Sixth period must have ended. Paris is talking to me but my main concern right now is how I got from the Physics lab on the second floor to the ASG room. I verify that I am, in fact, in the Chilton first floor ASG activity room by looking around a second time.  
  
"Checking the room for bugs?" Paris questions sarcastically, watching me. "Good thinking. Maybe you should write the quotes for the telescope plaque on a scrap of paper that the rest of us can just pass around. That way those super secret prices won't get leaked to El Quaeda."  
  
"Right. . . The telescope plaque quotes. Umm. . . they're here somewhere," I assure her as I begin to dig through the folders stacked in front of me.  
  
"Never mind," Paris states flatly, her voice dripping with annoyance. "By the time you get your act together, it will be dark outside and these freshman will be in curfew violation. Since I, myself, would like to get home in time for dinner, we'll table discussion of the quotes until next week. Does anyone have any further business to bring before the council?"  
  
Francie opens her mouth to speak but before she can utter a single word, she is silenced by Paris' gavel banging on the table.  
  
"Good. Meeting adjourned."  
  
I stifle a smile as Francie shoots daggers at Paris. She and the other ASG representatives slowly filter from the room into the hallway. I start to follow them out but Paris waylays me.  
  
"Rory, I need a word with you. That is, if you can conquer your sudden attack of attention deficit disorder long enough to pay attention to me."  
  
"What is it, Paris?" I ask.  
  
"I'm aware that you're on ASG against your will but. . . too bad. I don't care. The bottom line is that you are on ASG and when you're in these meetings, I except your head to be here, not just to look pretty sitting on top of your body but to have actual thoughts running through it."  
  
If she only knew. I've been struggling all day to get my mind in the present but it's been a lost cause. I haven't been able to focus on Chilton or class work for longer than a minute and a half at a time. In Comparative Literature, a discussion of the evolution of cultural storytelling and divine retribution symbolized by the myth of Prometheus led me straight into thoughts about the penance I'm sure to suffer for hurting Dean. Probably I won't be chained to a rock while my liver is eaten by a vulture, only to have it grow back during the night so the vulture can eat it again the next day, but I'm sure my punishment won't be good.  
  
In chemistry, Mr. Van Nostrand's lecture on the principles of chemical bonding left me shivering as my thoughts turned to Jess. Apparently, when two atoms are close to each other and their electrons are of the correct type, it is more energetically favorable for them to come together and share electrons, than it is for them to exist as individual, separate atoms. 'Are Jess and I energetically favorable?' I had wondered. Mr. Van Nostrand would surely be shocked to learn that his lecture about chemical bonds and compound atoms falling naturally together the same way that a dropped rock falls straight to the ground, had me picturing the various ways Jess and I could fall, may fall.  
  
Sighing, I wait for Paris to continue.  
  
"I'm not going to let your little daydreams interfere with my ability to procure an exceptional and distinguished class gift. The legacy of the class of 2003 is too important to be left in the hands of people who don't care about the future of this school. If you can't handle getting the quotes, tell me now and I'll do it myself."  
  
"I can handle it."  
  
"Really? Because it doesn't look-"  
  
"I can handle it, Paris," I interrupt her.  
  
"Don't get defensive with me. I'm not the one who zoned out for almost an hour while other people were working."  
  
"I'm not defensive. I had a stressful weekend and I'm tired. Now, if you're done berating me, I'll just be leaving."  
  
"Stressful? What in your idyllic sheltered life could possibly cause you stress?" she asks crossing her arms in front of her and raising her eyebrows.  
  
"Like you care."  
  
"Don't be such a baby."  
  
"Fine," I say completely irritated with her. "If you must know, I broke up with Dean on Saturday."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah, oh."  
  
"Wait. . . You broke up with Malibu Ken or he broke up with you?"  
  
"I broke up with him. God, why is that so hard for everyone to believe?"  
  
"No kidding," Paris says, almost smiling at me. "That's kind of impressive. I didn't think you had it in you."  
  
"Exactly what does that mean?"  
  
"Face it, Rory. That guy was a pretty face on a tall hard body and that's about it."  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about." I state, rolling my eyes. "There was a lot more to Dean than that."  
  
"Really? Were there rivers of depth that I somehow missed?"  
  
"He's a good guy. He was very sweet to me."  
  
"I'm sure he was. It's a wonder you didn't die of boredom. Not that going to pig calling contests or butter churning festivals isn't thrilling entertainment."  
  
"Goodbye, Paris," I say, grabbing my backpack and heading towards the door.  
  
"Oh please," she laughs. "The only thing you had in common with Dean is that you're both homo-sapiens."  
  
I stop, turn back, and glare at her. I'm about to hurl a counterargument like a spitball straight at her head when she continues.  
  
"I'm willing to bet he can't even spell Bukowski let alone analyze Bukowski's writing style or speculate whether or not he'd be friends with Jane Austen. Next time, maybe you should try dating someone who's your intellectual equal. You know, someone who can keep you on your toes. Tell me, Gilmore," she continues as she walks past me, pausing at the door, "Do you know anyone like that?"  
  
Paris shoots me what I'd swear is a genuine smile before turning on her heel and marching out of the room. A full minute later, I'm still standing like a deaf mute in the exact same spot where she left me, staring at the place where her back used to be, wondering at what point I lost control of my world and when Paris got so smart.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
The diner's bell rings.  
  
I look up to see a heavyset Asian man entering.  
  
Depositing my rag behind the counter, I wipe my hands on my apron and walk over to take his order. As he asks about the daily special, the cadence of his voice causes my mind to flash back to a warm night not so long ago.  
  
There was this place in New York, a total dive, where you could get the best Vietnamese food in the world. OK, maybe not the best in the world but the best this side of Hanoi. The smell walking in the door was overpowering, incredible, it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. They had this little old cook who spoke only Vietnamese. She used to yell things at the wait staff and they'd answer her using the same choppy, high- pitched words that sounded like they contained too many vowels and not enough consonants. She was maybe 4-feet tall but she could boss those waiters around like a General. She could also cook like nobody's business.  
  
Her specialty was black pepper sauce. God, that stuff was amazing - a mixture of soy sauce and caramel that she'd drizzle on chicken or shrimp then sprinkle with tons of black pepper and fresh cilantro to cut the sweetness. Throw in some steamed veggies, add some rice and. . . Well, it was unbelievable.  
  
Two nights before I got sent here, AJ, Sean, Javier, and I went there. We sat at the scratched Formica table on the wobbly-legged wooden chairs, and ordered food and Sing Ha's. As it always does, the beer arrived first. AJ reached across the table to grab one and, in the process, flashed the waiter a clear view of the gun he had strapped to his shoulder. Don't get me wrong, AJ's like a brother to me but sometimes he can be a complete tool. Packing concealed is a big no-no in the city. Our observant waiter, who was obviously in training for ATF special forces, panicked and called the cops. The next thing I knew, the police crashed through the doors and swarmed all over us like we were in some damn Al Pacino movie. On impulse and adrenalin, I broke for the door but a cop who looked just like Bull from those old Night Court reruns tackled me. Damn near broke my shoulder.  
  
Because it all happened so fast, I totally forgot about the dime bag I had hidden in my jean jacket.  
  
So, I'm sprawled there, just making sure I can still move my arm and fingers, when Bull frisked me, found the Mary Jane, and arrested me on the spot. My ass got unceremoniously tossed in the back of a black and white waiting right outside. Just my luck to be busted for possession. Again. My reward was a free ride downtown courtesy of New York City's finest. The trip was familiar as it wasn't exactly my first time there. Let's just say, I'd been at the station house often enough for the guy at the front desk to remember my name.  
  
The story gets worse. Liz had been threatening to leave me in jail the next time I got arrested and apparently, she picked that night to start keeping her word. I spent a very long night in the system. The cell was small and it stank. I was stuck in there with three other guys who definitely did not look like this was their first overnight stay. I don't have much to say about that night because I don't like thinking about it but I'll tell you this. . . I didn't say a goddamn word from the time they slammed my cell door until I got released. I just sat on my bunk leaning back against the wall with my arms wrapped around my knees and my very best don't-fuck-with-me look plastered to my face.  
  
I kept my eyes open all night. I'm no fool.  
  
The next morning, Liz shows up with bail money that she got God knows where. In the middle of her standard what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you, you're-going-to-wind-up-dead-on-the-street speech that I'd heard several hundred times, she threw me a curve ball. This time, she has a half-baked 'Save Jess' plan that involves me moving to Connecticut, the existence of which I always thought to be an exaggerated rumor. Not only that, I'm supposed to move in with her younger brother, my uncle, who she has never mentioned to me before in my entire life.  
  
Walking home from the station house with Liz, I remember listening to her prattle on and on and fucking on, and at that moment, my biggest regret was that I got busted before I could eat my Black Pepper chicken.  
  
As I'm giving the Asian guy's order to Luke, I flash to my arrival in Stars Hollow.  
  
The whole way here on the bus, I was sick to my stomach, my hands, cigarette-fidgety. I tried to read a Larry McMurtry paperback but the nausea threatened to overwhelm me and I had to shut my eyes periodically and lean my head against the seat. I kept waiting for it to get better, for the sensation to pass, but it never did. The farther I got from New York, the realer this nightmare became. The scenery shooting past the bus windows, during the times I was curious enough to look out them, got increasingly greener. Fewer traffic lights, smaller buildings, strip malls, farmland. All different, all strange. The contrast between normal and this new reality was soul crushing.  
  
It wasn't my world. It still isn't.  
  
The don't-fuck-with-me mask I assumed during my unfortunate incarceration had never really left so I wore it off the bus to greet my uncle. It was either act like I didn't give a shit or surrender to the queasiness lurking just under my skin and spend the entire day throwing up in his bathroom. Granted, neither one makes a great first impression but of the two, the second had significantly less appeal.  
  
I carried that seasick feeling for days.  
  
The only thing that made it go away was her.  
  
She was impossibly beautiful. The kind of girl you'd see in a magazine ad for Noxzema with, like, golden retriever puppies crawling all over her. I'd never met anyone like her before. Her face was open, her hair, thick and shining, her eyes, azure blue and completely without guile. She was the picture of innocence. Hell, she still is.  
  
"Penny for your thoughts," a voice says.  
  
I look up and there she is, smiling at me. The very same smile that, in my first few days here in purgatory, made the world stop lurching and spinning, made my legs feel solid again.  
  
"Sorry but due to rising inflation rates my thoughts cost more than that," I inform her.  
  
"But are they worth more than that?" Rory says, her grin widening as she plays along.  
  
"Pay me and you'll find out."  
  
She sits on a stool and reaches into her coat pocket. Pulling something out, she offers it to me as the backpack in her other hand drops to the floor.  
  
"I didn't know you were such a capitalist," she comments.  
  
I look down as she places the nickel in my hand, her fingertips lightly brush my palm. I feel their heat.  
  
"There a lots of things you don't know about me."  
  
"So you keep reminding me."  
  
I smirk at her.  
  
"Well?" she presses. "I paid you. Where's my thought?"  
  
"I was thinking about the Larry McMurtry book I read on the bus on my way here."  
  
It's a statement with enough truth in it that it doesn't feel false rolling off my tongue. Of all the things I was thinking, that seems the safest one to share with her.  
  
"I love Larry McMurtry!" she enthuses. "Which one were you reading?"  
  
"I'm sorry but now you're requesting a second piece of information, not covered by your original payment. The name of the book is going to cost you another nickel."  
  
"Oh, come on," she laughs. "I hardly got my money's worth for the first nickel, I'm not giving you a second one. Besides, I'm paying you for thoughts, not information."  
  
"Are you insinuating that Larry McMurtry isn't worth a dime?"  
  
"He is but I'm not sure you are."  
  
"Now you're just hurting my feelings."  
  
"If I guess the book, will you tell me?" she asks me, her eyes sparkling.  
  
"Sure. If you pay me first."  
  
"Mean!" Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "and pompous. Charging people for the pleasure of your conversation is downright Clinton-esque."  
  
"Are you saying you find pleasure in talking to me?" I ask in a low voice, watching her reaction with laser eyes.  
  
I'm rewarded with a patented Rory Gilmore blush, soon followed by a classic stammer.  
  
"I was making a point. . . I didn't mean to imply that talking to you is pleasurable, as in 'pleasure'. I meant that it's pleasant talking to you, but not in a pleasurable way. Not that I came in here just to talk to-"  
  
"Rory," I interrupt, sliding closer to her, continuing in a low voice that only she can hear, "It's OK. Pleasure is one of my specialties. And I wouldn't charge you."  
  
She looks at me, silent for a heartbeat. I've surprised her and I grin. Her blush deepens to a gorgeous shade of pink. Tearing her eyes from mine, she looks everywhere but at me. I think she's collected herself because she reaches back into her coat pocket, and produces another nickel.  
  
"I'll make you a deal," she says. "This nickel is yours but I want the name of the McMurtry book and a cup of coffee."  
  
"You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Gilmore."  
  
"Take it or leave it."  
  
I reach over and take the nickel from her and on impulse, trace my index finger down hers and across the back of her hand before pulling my hand away. I hear a sharp intake of breath that lets me know that I've surprised her again.  
  
I shouldn't do this but I can't help it. I want to know, need to know, that she feels something similar to what I feel when I'm around her. The one kiss 100 years ago, the staring, the breakup with BagBoy, they just aren't enough. I need to know that all of this has something, anything, to do with me. I don't want to be just a spectator of her evolution, an observer of this personal journey she's started. I want to be a destination on her path, not a speed bump or roadside attraction.  
  
So I push it, like I did just now. . . a little bit. . . and wait to see what she'll do.  
  
I turn and grab a coffee mug and the pot. Setting the mug in front of her, I fill it and say "Lonesome Dove."  
  
"I knew it!" she explodes, pleased with herself. "I was going to guess Lonesome Dove. I absolutely love that book!"  
  
"You don't really look like the cowboy type."  
  
"Well," she begins, cocking her head to one side and raising her eyebrows, "there's a lot about me you don't know."  
  
I can't help it. She's too cute and I laugh.  
  
"You can't impersonate me, Gilmore."  
  
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Rory gets a mischievous gleam in her eyes and I know I'm doomed. Whatever happens next will be entirely my fault. Before I can stop her, she slides off her chair and darts behind me. Grabbing a clean apron from the stack, she ties it around her waist.  
  
"Rory, what are you doing?" I ask.  
  
"Call me Jess," she commands, doing her best to shake off the light dancing in her eyes and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  
  
"Give me that apron."  
  
"No," she replies running a hand through her hair before tucking a pencil behind her ear.  
  
I turn around to put the coffee pot back on the burner as I hear the door jingle. She rushes up behind me, grabs the book out of my back pocket and says "Excuse me, I have customers."  
  
As she walks out from behind the counter, she stuffs my book in her back pocket and takes my order pad from the counter. She shoots me a look that feels more like a dare before closing her eyes and steeling her facial features into a scowl. She walks silently to the table where the man and woman have just sat down.  
  
I watch in rapt fascination.  
  
"What can I get for you?" she says in the most bored sounding voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth.  
  
The couple jump, not having heard or sensed her approach.  
  
"Well," says the woman who looks to be in her mid-forties, "what are your specials today?"  
  
"Food," Rory replies tersely.  
  
"Can you be a little more specific?"  
  
"Hot food," Rory says sarcastically.  
  
I suddenly understand why people stare at car accidents. The way she's standing, holding my pencil, the mildly annoyed look on her face, the lack of greeting, the way she looks at the customers without actually looking at the customers, the patronizing tone of her voice, it's all hitting a little too close to home. Understanding floods me. All that time she spent studying me, she really was, well. . . studying me. It's horrifying, mesmerizing, illuminating. I can't look away.  
  
"Can we see some menus?" the man, probably her husband, asks.  
  
"Fine," she breathes, rolling her eyes.  
  
She walks back in my in my direction, a huge pleased grin on her face. Picking up the menus, she scowls again before turning around to silently approach the table. Without a word, she hands menus to the couple.  
  
"Is there anything you'd recommend?" the woman asks.  
  
"You're pretty much taking your chances with all of it," Rory intones.  
  
"Uh. . . We'll need a minute to review the menus then," the man informs her.  
  
"Rory!" Luke's voice calls out from behind me. "What are you doing?"  
  
Rory walks triumphantly over to Luke and me. She slides the pencil back behind her ear and places one hand on her hip while she leans on the counter.  
  
"Call me Jess," she tells him.  
  
"Forget it," he says. "The last thing I need in my life is another Jess."  
  
"Now that gives me a nice warm fuzzy feeling, Uncle Luke," I say.  
  
"Don't even start with me," he says to me. "Whatever she was doing over there is all your fault. I can't prove it but I'm sure it is."  
  
"I can't be held accountable for her actions anymore than you can be held accountable for Lorelai's. You do realize she's a Gilmore, don't you?"  
  
In the time it's taken for Luke and me to exchange words, Rory has moved away from us to the end of the counter. Standing behind the counter, she is leaning on her elbows, reading my book. In an absentminded fashion that I know is anything but, she runs her fingers through her hair again. She glances up at us, her face a blanket of disdain, and resumes reading.  
  
It's uncanny. I'm completely unnerved.  
  
Luke, apparently, is momentarily unnerved as well. That is, until he starts laughing.  
  
"Wow. I may have to start calling her Jess," he says. "She's got you down."  
  
"She does not," I tell him.  
  
"Oh please, that is exactly how you look."  
  
"It is not."  
  
"She's freaking brilliant!" he laughs.  
  
"Whatever," I tell him as I wander over to take the couple's order.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
He's adorable when he's angry. Serves him right, though. He can't keep accusing me of not knowing him when he won't let me know him. I just wanted to show him that I have been paying attention at least to the public persona that he's allowed me to see lately. I only want to shake him up, get under his skin, shock him into opening up to me. It wouldn't kill him to let me in a little. I mean, I won't bite. Well, unless he wants me to.  
  
"That was an Oscar worthy performance," Luke laughs, walking up to me.  
  
"Thanks," I grin, taking off the apron. "The question is, was it donut worthy?"  
  
"Mocking Jess definitely earns you a jelly donut on the house."  
  
"Wow, jelly filled! I must be better than I thought."  
  
Walking back around the counter, I sit down in front of my now empty coffee cup. Luke places a strawberry jelly-filled donut in front of me and replenishes my coffee without me asking. I grin like an idiot, humming happily. I love Luke.  
  
"You know, I missed the beginning of your performance. If you call me before you start next time, there are two jelly donuts in it for you."  
  
"Oh, count on it!" I grin at him.  
  
Jess walks over and hands the couple's order to Luke. Luke, enjoying Jess' obvious irritation, chuckles as he makes his way back into the kitchen. I can't help it, I'm completely proud of myself and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  
  
"So,' Jess begins. "A lot of people argue that Lonesome Dove is THE great American novel."  
  
I laugh.  
  
"Have you no comment about my incredible impersonation of you?" I question.  
  
"I see where they're coming from. It's heroic, tragic, larger-than-life in scope and scale," he continues, ignoring me.  
  
"Cause I thought I really captured your spirit, you know, that whole Holden Caulfield thing you've got going on."  
  
"The old American West comes alive with characters that are so real, you feel like you actually know them."  
  
"Your walk is hard to reproduce. I could use some pointers on it."  
  
"Especially Gus and Call."  
  
"You're embarrassed! Admit it! I was good!"  
  
"Just because it's set in the old west, people often mistake if for a western but it's so much more than that."  
  
"Nothing, huh? You don't even have a single sarcastic comment to fling my way?"  
  
"It's got everything. . . love, heroism, honor, loyalty, betrayal, humor, simple courage. And, it's flawlessly written."  
  
I can't help it. I smile at him, knowing that I nailed him and he knows it. He grins back and I can tell he's not really mad. His eyes warm me and I feel comfortable in his gaze. If he'd keep looking at me like that, I'd sit here all day. Happy, I bite into my donut.  
  
"OK, I'll tell you a secret," I start, deciding to cut him a break.  
  
He leans closer and raises his eyebrows expectantly.  
  
"I once actually faked sick so I could stay home from school and finish Lonesome Dove."  
  
His laugh is genuine and I drink it in, loving the sound, pitch, and volume of it. It's beautiful, like the rest of him.  
  
"Rory Gilmore skipped school?"  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"To read?"  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"Classic," he grins.  
  
"Well, I was near the end of the book and I wouldn't have been able to concentrate in class anyways."  
  
"You know, other people skip school to hang out with their friends or to knock over liquor stores. You skip school to read."  
  
"Yep, I'm a wild thing. Maybe you shouldn't hang out with me. I'll probably be a bad influence."  
  
His smile broadens.  
  
"Thanks for the warning. I think I'll take my chances."  
  
"OK, but if you get corrupted, don't blame me."  
  
We're silent for a minute, lost in our individual thoughts and the contentment of the moment. I take a sip of coffee.  
  
"So Lonesome Dove pulled you in?" he asks me.  
  
"In a big way. I couldn't even think about reading another novel for weeks after I finished it. Trust me, that is unusual. I just couldn't get out of McMurtry's world. I guess I wasn't ready to say goodbye to the characters that inhabit Lonesome Dove."  
  
"What parts touched you most?"  
  
"Wow," I reply, thinking. "I don't think I can pinpoint a specific chapter or moment. I reread it a couple years later and cried through the whole thing. It's just. . . Gus and Call, you know? You couldn't find two more different people yet they are so absolutely indispensable to one another. The lifelong friendship they forge and the other characters that weave themselves in and out of their lives. . . It's just incredible and it all felt so real to me. There's a quote before the book begins that says 'What they dreamed, we live, and what they lived, we dream.' That sums up how I feel about Lonesome Dove."  
  
"Yeah, I really got caught up in it too. I couldn't believe it when Deets died. I was so stunned, I thought I'd misread it."  
  
"Oh God, I practically needed therapy after that scene," I admit, my eyes tearing.  
  
Jess regards me thoughtfully.  
  
"What else by McMurtry have you read?" he asks me.  
  
I wonder if he's noticed my watery eyes and is kindly changing the subject. I pause before I answer, looking in his now soft brown eyes.  
  
"A lot," I answer honestly. "His other novels are all good, I especially like Some Can Whistle, but none are quite on par with Lonesome Dove."  
  
"Buffalo Girls and The Last Picture Show are both good reads."  
  
"Definitely. Did you know that Larry McMurtry was part of the same Stanford University writing program that produced Ken Kesey and Peter Beagle?"  
  
"No way."  
  
"Yeah, they were all friends with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy."  
  
"Wow. Small world."  
  
I grin and finish my donut. I look up to find Jess smirking at me.  
  
"You have-" he starts, motioning to my face.  
  
"What?" I ask, eyes wide.  
  
"Just a little-" he grins.  
  
His hand moves slowly and the next thing I know, he's touching my face. I freeze. His fingers skim my cheek as his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, lingering there for just a moment. He moves his thumb, scraping my lower lip, pulling it slightly downward. Involuntarily, my lips part. He inhales sharply.  
  
My senses are screaming.  
  
Only when he removes his hand do I notice the jelly donut filling stuck to his thumb. Making constant eye contact with me, he puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks on it. When he pulls it out, I see the tip of his tongue flit out between his lips to lick the last remaining piece of filling off.  
  
"Strawberry," be breathes.  
  
I can't speak. A hurricane of chills makes their way from my ankles to my knees and settles between my legs, leaving me breathless and suddenly alert.  
  
I stand unsteadily. Picking up my book bag, I back away from him.  
  
"My mom. . ." I fumble, still burning, confused. "I should. . . You know. . . Homework. . ."  
  
He nods, understanding.  
  
I back straight into the door, causing the venetian blinds to rattle and the bell to sound a muffled jingle. Of course, this makes me blush.  
  
"Bye," I say quickly, reaching for the doorknob.  
  
"Later," he responds.  
  
I leave as quickly as I can without actually running, suddenly desperate for air. This time, I don't look back as I walk past the diner's front window. He's watching me though. I can tell.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
A/N: Due to popular demand, Lane will be making an appearance in the next chapter. I just wanted to try my hand at Paris first. Please let me know what you think so far. . . .and in case you haven't picked up on this, reviews make my day. 


	7. Walt Whitman

A/N: Hey Everyone, I don't even know where to start. I can't believe that: 1) this story has over 100 reviews and 2) the quality of the reviews you guys leave for me is so amazingly good! To all of you who kindly say that this story is getting better, I contend that it's only because you leave such great feedback. I am humbled and happy. Thank you so much!  
  
As promised, Lane is featured prominently in this chapter. I hope you like it.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
Without breaking stride, Rory darts inside the Gilmore house, kicking the front door shut with her foot. Entering her bedroom, she tosses her book bag in a corner and collapses on her bed. She is dazed, bewildered, shaken. A continuous mantra thunders through her head, a simple repeating, 'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. . .'  
  
Rolling onto her back, she grabs a spare pillow and hugs it tightly to her chest. Shutting her eyes, she tries to slow the hammering of her heart, tries to steady her ragged breathing. Her attempt is futile as the amount of adrenalin rocketing through her makes calmness an elusive, impossible goal. As a crescendo of emotion crashes, she rocks rhythmically from side to side.  
  
'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. . .'  
  
Desperate to distract herself, Rory reaches onto her nightstand and grabs the most easily accessible book from the top of her To-Be-Read stack. Her goal - simply to find peace, to quiet the unsettling emotions so alien to her by retreating into the familiar, reassuring world of words on a page. She glances briefly at the book, Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, before opening to the page marked with her Hello Kitty bookmarker. She begins reading.  
  
.  
  
"I mind how we once lay such a transparent summer morning,  
  
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,  
  
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare- stript heart."  
  
.  
  
'OK,' she thinks. 'That is not helpful.' Flipping ahead several pages, she settles herself into her pillows and tries again.  
  
.  
  
"This is the press of a bashful hand, this is the float and odor of hair,  
  
This is the touch of my lips to yours, this is the murmur of yearning,  
  
This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,  
  
This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again."  
  
.  
  
'Really, really not helping,' she thinks. Her eyebrows knit together and she takes a deep breath. Opening to another random page, she reads.  
  
.  
  
"Through me forbidden voices,  
  
Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,  
  
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd."  
  
.  
  
Slamming the book shut, Rory drops it onto the floor as though it's a flame that burns her hand. The book springs open upon impact with the hardwood. Rory listens to the lonely sound of the book's pages turning, flipping quietly.  
  
Something inside of her feels like it's breaking. A persistent idea that started during her trek home forcefully pushes its way into her consciousness. Understanding dawns on her suddenly as she stills. This new radical thought commands her full attention with the authority of a truth that cannot be ignored - the source of her anxiety isn't Jess, it's her reaction to Jess. For the first time in her life, Rory recognizes this emotion and can call it by its name - fear.  
  
A single tear trickles down her cheek, which she wipes away with the back of her hand.  
  
'Is that what this is all about?' she wonders. 'Am I afraid?' Her memory tumbles back to thoughts of Dean and Tristan, thoughts of innocent kisses and sweet declarations of love, which caused similar panicked moments. Chuckling softly, Rory rolls her eyes, momentarily lost in her reflections. Admittedly, fear is a dragon that chased her through adolescence, breathing fire on her back, snapping at her heels, causing her to run. However, comparing the experiences she cannot escape the inevitable conclusion.  
  
Her feelings for Jess are in a category by themselves. Jess is want and need and intelligence and desire and funny and lust and understand and ache and connection and burn, burn, burn. She wonders if this is what Walt Whitman was trying to tell her.  
  
'I never felt this way about anyone else,' she thinks. She never wanted to melt into Dean or Tristan, never had the crazy urge to memorize the flecks of color in their eyes, never sought out their company, never felt their silent presence before seeing them, never wondered what their hands would feel like on her skin, never wanted to taste their fingers.  
  
A vision of Jess licking strawberry donut filling off his thumb floats in front of her eyes. Turning slightly, she moans into her pillow.  
  
This is definitely different. This is definitely new. This is definitely scary.  
  
Lorelai stands in Rory's doorway watching her carefully. "Rory, are you OK?" she asks.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Rory answers in the best imitation of nonchalance that she can muster. She rolls onto her back and makes eye contact with her mother.  
  
"Really? Cause you look very not OK."  
  
"No," Rory lies. "I'm fine."  
  
"Uh huh," Lorelai smiles, fully entering Rory's room. "Cause every time you're fine, you lie on your bed and groan like that. It's how I know you've had a good day."  
  
Rory looks at her mother plaintively.  
  
"Want me to guess?" Lorelai questions excitedly. "OK, you've been perfecting a synchronized swimming routine and only just learned that it's not an Olympic event anymore."  
  
"Mom-"  
  
"I think that would upset anyone, honey."  
  
"Please-"  
  
"No? Did you secretly purchase a Brittney Spears' CD after actually liking one of her songs you heard on the radio only to have it discovered by Lane who is coming over later to perform an exorcism?"  
  
"Sacrilege! I can't believe you said that!"  
  
"Too far, huh? OK. . . Are you having an appendicitis attack?"  
  
"Well," Rory admits, "I'm definitely having an attack of something but I don't think it involves my appendix."  
  
"OK, good, that narrows it down for me. Let me take a wild guess. . . Are you having an attack of teenage hormones over a certain dark haired brooding New York City diner boy?"  
  
Moving her hands to cover her face, Rory groans.  
  
Lorelai grins ruefully. "Yeah," she says, "That's what I thought."  
  
"I think I'm losing my mind," Rory moans from behind her hands.  
  
Sighing, Lorelai says, "How bad is it?"  
  
Rory peeks out between her fingers and surveys her mother.  
  
"Give it to me straight," Lorelai urges. "I can take it."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Not really, but tell me anyways."  
  
"Well," Rory begins, removing her hands from her face. "I was at the diner and, umm. . . I had some jelly donut on my face and-"  
  
"Ooh!" Lorelai interrupts. "Did you bring me one?"  
  
"No, sorry. I kinda left in a hurry," Rory apologizes.  
  
"OK, you're forgiven this one time. Continue."  
  
"Well, Jess saw the jelly donut filling stuck to my lip and he sort of leaned over and-"  
  
"Licked it off with his tongue?!" Lorelai finishes for her.  
  
"No!" Rory states quickly. Thinking it over, she sighs, "There's always next time though."  
  
"Uh huh. Sorry. Continue."  
  
"He leaned over and. . . you know. . . sorta scraped it off with his thumb and then, umm. . . he kind of. . . put his thumb in his mouth-"  
  
"Stop!" Lorelai commands. "That's all the detail I can handle for one day. I think I have the basic gist of it."  
  
Rory bites her lower lip and looks at her mother speculatively, waiting.  
  
"Let's see if I've got this straight. Jess touched your face and you felt like the wind had been knocked out of you?"  
  
"Yes." Rory says.  
  
"And the butterflies that normally behave themselves by limiting their activity to your stomach decided to mutiny and flutter all over your body?  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"And out of nowhere, the bones in your legs suddenly turned into Jell-O and you thought you might collapse?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"And if he would just collapse with you, the world would make perfect sense?"  
  
"Yes!" Rory cries, "That's it exactly!"  
  
"Oh God," Lorelai says closing her eyes. "Scoot over."  
  
Rory slides to the middle of her bed making room for Lorelai who lies on her back next to her daughter.  
  
"You've got it bad," Lorelai sighs.  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure."  
  
"I was thinking that I only have it medium. Actually, a smidge to the left of medium, more like medium-light."  
  
"I hate to break it to you but if you're already at the air-sucked-out-of- my-lungs-spaghetti-legs-collapsing stage, you've officially got it bad."  
  
"Well, it doesn't matter," Rory says confidently. "I can handle it."  
  
Lorelai laughs. "No babe, you really can't."  
  
"Sure, I can."  
  
"Oh honey. . . you know I love you and I'm not trying to be patronizing but you have to trust me when I say that you have no idea what you're talking about. I've been trying to explain this to you for months. These emotions that you're feeling, this stuff that's happening to you. . . it isn't 'handle-able'. Not in the way that you think it is. No one in the whole world has ever come out of where you are right now unchanged."  
  
"But this is different."  
  
"No, it isn't. It's the same story since the beginning of time. Passion makes people do crazy things, stupid things, things they never dreamed themselves capable of-"  
  
"Mom, I know where you're going with this and Jess isn't out to corrupt me. That's not going to happen."  
  
"Jess is only half of the equation here and frankly, I'm not even talking about him. This is about you."  
  
"I'm not going to morph into Pamela Anderson Lee."  
  
"Well, that's a huge relief."  
  
"Don't you trust me?"  
  
"You know I do. I'm just worried that you're not prepared for what's about to happen to you, what's already happening to you."  
  
"I can't stay a baby forever, mom."  
  
"Sure you can. You're just not trying hard enough."  
  
Their conversation is interrupted by a weight hitting the bed. Both women look over to find Lane flopped on the other side of Rory. Mimicking Rory and Lorelai, Lane also lies flat on her back.  
  
"I have no rock and roll clothes," Lane states sourly.  
  
"Hey Lane," Rory greets.  
  
"Did you bring your crucifix and holy water for Rory's exorcism?" Lorelai questions.  
  
"Actually, no. Should I run home and get them?" Lane responds.  
  
"You have holy water?" Rory asks her friend.  
  
"Have you met my mother?" Lane asks rhetorically.  
  
"Enough said," Rory concedes.  
  
"Seriously, how can I achieve rock and roll greatness when I dress like a Quaker?"  
  
"That definitely makes it harder," Rory admits.  
  
"I can't think of one single Amish rock star," Lorelai agrees.  
  
"I mean. . . did Terry Chimes ever look in his closet and think 'I have nothing to wear'?"  
  
Rory steals a look at her mother. "Terry Chimes?" she asks.  
  
"Drummer for The Clash," Lorelai responds.  
  
"Ah," Rory nods.  
  
"Those boots that Keith Moon wore? I'm pretty sure they were his," Lane continues.  
  
Rory and Lorelai exchange another look.  
  
"The Who," Lorelai says.  
  
"I bet Maureen Tucker's mother did not buy her clothes for her," Lane continues, on a roll.  
  
"The Velvet Underground," Rory offers.  
  
"Lou Reed's drummer was a woman?" Lorelai questions, surprised.  
  
"Uh huh, they called her 'Moe'," Rory informs her.  
  
"Take Charlie Watts for instance. . ." Lane rants.  
  
"The Rolling Stones," Lorelai says.  
  
"Or Stewart Copeland. . . "  
  
"The Police," Rory supplies.  
  
"Or John Bonham. . . "  
  
"Led Zeppelin," Rory offers.  
  
"Choked on his own vomit," Lorelai informs her.  
  
"Or Danny Carey. . ."  
  
"OK. . . I'm stumped," Lorelai admits.  
  
"Tool," Rory answers.  
  
"Ah," breathes Lorelai.  
  
"They all have the classic rock and roll rebel look. And don't even get me started on the trend setting and drumming genius of Roger Taylor. . ."  
  
"You were influenced by Queen?" Lorelai interrupts.  
  
"Who wasn't?" Lane responds.  
  
"She has a good point," Rory says to her mother.  
  
"It's useless." Lane sighs. "If you can't dress the part, get out of the kitchen. Or, leave the band. You know what I mean."  
  
"Do you want to borrow some clothes?" Rory asks her best friend.  
  
"Can I?" Lane asks.  
  
"Of course you can. Although mom's closet is a better bet for finding the edgy stuff."  
  
"Yea!" Lane cheers. Pausing momentarily, she continues, "OK. So, why are we laying on the bed staring at the ceiling?"  
  
"We're trying to reach new Zen-like levels of calm," Lorelai says.  
  
"We're thinking," Rory clarifies.  
  
"Oh. What are we thinking about?" Lane asks.  
  
"How to get Luke to send Jess back to New York without having him hate me like he did all last summer," Lorelai supplies.  
  
"Mom!"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Lorelai intones. "Was I the only one thinking about that? My bad."  
  
"Am I missing something?" Lane asks, confused. "Why do we want Jess to leave Stars Hollow?"  
  
"Because Rory has the hots for him and therefore he must be banished," Lorelai answers.  
  
"What?!" Lane coughs, choking.  
  
"I do not have the hots for Jess," Rory objects.  
  
"Yes she does," Lorelai counters. "Bad."  
  
"If I did have the hots for Jess, and I'm not saying that I do, it would not be in the category of bad. It would be more in the category of medium- light."  
  
"You have the medium-light hots for Jess?" Lane questions.  
  
"No," Lorelai answers for her. "She has the big bad blazing red hots for Jess."  
  
"I do not," Rory protests.  
  
Lane and Lorelai both observe her quietly.  
  
"OK, maybe a little bit," Rory volunteers.  
  
Silence settles on the room.  
  
Sighing, Rory throws her hands in the air. "Alright! Maybe a lot."  
  
"She's in heat," Lorelai concludes.  
  
"I can't believe it. I'm out of commission for one week and my best friend goes into heat for a guy that I thought we were supposed to be hating."  
  
"Where have you been, by the way?" Lorelai asks.  
  
"Grounded."  
  
"What for this time?" Lorelai queries.  
  
"Someone told an off color knock-knock joke when Mama and I were at Doose's Market and I almost smiled. I really tried not to but I think the corners of my mouth inched up for a millisecond or so, which was just enough time for Mama to sense my impure, un-Christian thoughts. I had to spend last week translating Pilgrim's Progress into Korean. I challenge you to find a Korean word for 'expostulate'."  
  
"I don't think I even know an English word for 'expostulate'," Lorelai muses.  
  
"Wait a minute," Lane interjects. Looking at Rory, she asks, "How did you get from zero to white hot molten lust in just one week?"  
  
"It's kind of been brewing for awhile," Rory admits sheepishly.  
  
"How long is awhile?"  
  
"Since before I went to Washington."  
  
"Wow. That explains a lot."  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I barely told myself."  
  
"It's OK."  
  
"No, it's not OK. You're my best friend and I'm supposed to tell you things."  
  
"Hey, don't worry about it. This stuff is all new and confusing to me too. Trust me, I battle my own white hot Dave lust everyday."  
  
"Mama Kim just got a pain in her heart and she doesn't know why," Lorelai smiles.  
  
"You can confide in me though," Lane continues. "You know that, right?"  
  
"I do," Rory answers. "That goes both ways."  
  
"Yeah, I know. So, exactly what are you going to do about Jess?"  
  
"OK, I hate to be the one who ruins the Hallmark moment we seem to be having, but there is one not-so-small detail that we're overlooking," Lorelai interjects.  
  
"What?" Rory asks.  
  
"Shane," Lorelai replies softly.  
  
Every object in Rory's bedroom feels like it has somehow instantly jumped ten feet away from her and she's left lying in a void. Sonic waves created by the wake of the shifted reality pulse against her. The waves are painful and pounding, full of sound and fury and nothing tangible that she can grasp to stabilize her squeezed heart. She feels suddenly irrevocably alone. Tear spring to her eyes.  
  
"Oh mom," she whispers. "I forgot all about Shane."  
  
"I think I have scoop. . ." Lane states slowly and evenly.  
  
"Scoop?" Rory questions in a small voice.  
  
"Yes, I am known for my scoop. It's one of my gifts, but this is particularly timely. . ." Lane continues.  
  
"Please enlighten us," Lorelai entreats.  
  
"OK. . . When I was a kid, I used to keep a list of all the swear words I heard-" Lane begins.  
  
"Why?" Lorelai interrupts.  
  
"Because I knew there would come a day when I would be able to curse and I wanted to be prepared."  
  
"Oh, good thinking. How did you keep the list hidden from Mama Kim?" Lorelai asks with interest.  
  
"It was in the days before I discovered music, or at least before I had any cash to buy CDs. I stored it under the loose floorboards in my room with all my Juicy Fruit gum."  
  
"You hid juicy fruit gum?"  
  
"I had to. You see, juicy fruit is homosexual gum, or as Mama likes to refer to it, 'the gum of sodomites.' It wasn't allowed in our house."  
  
"Juicy fruit is gay gum?"  
  
"Yes, obviously preferred by the homosexual community. Mama believes that homosexuality is contagious, you know, like chicken pox. If we, the heterosexuals, start partaking of homosexual products we will catch homosexuality and become homosexuals ourselves. Then, there will be nothing left but hordes of gay people roaming the streets."  
  
"You mean, hordes of gay people roaming the streets chewing gum."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I think I'm missing the Shane connection," Rory interjects.  
  
"Oh right. Today after school, I came out the west doors, like I always do, and crossed paths with Jess, Stars Hollow's newest declared hottie, having the argument of the year with his girlfriend. Well, actually, it was more like a shouting matching and it was more like Shane shouting and Jess trying to pretend like he was interested in what she was saying."  
  
"Shouting about what?" Rory asks.  
  
"Well, Shane was yelling at Jess about breaking up with her and she was pretty upset. In the space of three and a half minutes, she used every single swear word I had written on my list, plus two more that I'm going to have to look up on the internet later."  
  
"Wow. That's kind of impressive," Lorelai observes.  
  
"In a very sad way that acknowledges my baser instincts, I have to agree with you," Lane says.  
  
"So, Jess broke up with Shane?" Rory questions, her voice more hopeful.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Positive."  
  
Rory smiles broadly as the three women fall into silence, still lying on Rory's bed.  
  
"I'm hungry," Lorelai says.  
  
"Me too," Rory concurs.  
  
"That is the biggest cobweb I've ever seen," Lane observes staring at a corner of Rory's room.  
  
"Yeah, I noticed that earlier," Lorelai muses.  
  
"Can we order a pizza or something?" Rory asks.  
  
"That would require getting up off the bed," Lorelai says, stating the obvious.  
  
The three women lapse into silence again.  
  
At length, Lane volunteers, "OK, I'll do it. I haven't been lying here as long as you two have, so it should be easier for me to pry myself off this bed."  
  
Lane stands and walks to the door. Turning back, she asks, "Should I order some cheesy bread too?"  
  
"You have to ask?" Lorelai says.  
  
"Oh, right. Sorry," Lane grins, leaving the room.  
  
Lorelai rolls onto her side and props her head up on her elbow. Looking at Rory she says, "Before the moment passes entirely, can we backtrack a bit?"  
  
"Mom," Rory begins. "Remember when I took care of Michel's car last weekend and you said you owed me? I'm cashing in my I.O.U."  
  
"Uh oh."  
  
"I just want you to promise to give Jess a chance and give me some credit. This doesn't have to be the disaster you envision."  
  
Lorelai groans. "Do you have any idea what you're asking me?"  
  
"I think so. Just trust me mom, I'm not going to rush into anything with Jess. I just need to know that you are not going to freak out if you see me talking to him."  
  
Lorelai makes a small whimpering noise and buries her face in a pillow. When she emerges, she takes a deep breath and says, "OK. BUT. . . and I really really mean this. . . You need to make me a promise too."  
  
"What?" Rory asks cautiously.  
  
"Promise that you will talk to me and tell me what's going on with you and Jess. I don't care what it is. I need to know what you're doing so I can help you stay safe."  
  
"Deal," Rory smiles.  
  
"Pinky swear," Lorelai says.  
  
Rory holds out her hand and the two women lock pinkies.  
  
Lorelai goes first, "I swear that I will give Jess a fair chance, and believe in the ability of my amazingly wonderful daughter, who I love more than life itself, to make good choices."  
  
"And I swear that I will tell you where my head's at where Jess is concerned and let you help me as I try to figure out what the heck I'm doing."  
  
The two women smile at each other. Lorelai leans over and touches her forehead to Rory's.  
  
"Man, do I need coffee," Lorelai says, as she gets up and makes her way to the door.  
  
"Coffee would be great," Rory agrees.  
  
Smiling at her daughter, Lorelai exits the room.  
  
Lost in thought, Rory falls back onto her bed. Curling onto one side, she spies Leaves of Grass on the floor where she dropped it. 'I wonder if Walt has anything else to say to me?' she thinks. Leaning over, she carefully picks up the book, holding her thumb in the page that had fallen open. Rolling onto her back one last time, she reads.  
  
.  
  
"Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,  
  
You must travel it for yourself.  
  
It is not far, it is within reach,  
  
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,  
  
Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.  
  
Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,  
  
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.  
  
If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand  
  
on my hip,  
  
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,  
  
For after we start we never lie by again.  
  
This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven,  
  
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs,  
  
and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we  
  
be fill'd and satisfied then?  
  
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.  
  
You are also asking me questions and I hear you,  
  
I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself."  
  
.  
  
"Rory, honey," Lorelai calls. "Pizza's here."  
  
Rory closes the book and places it back on her nightstand. As she walks out of her room, she turns back and looks at the book.  
  
"Thanks Walt," she whispers.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
A/N: To me, reviews are like strawberry filling in the jelly donut of life. 


	8. Tom Robbins

A/N: I want to thank everyone who reviewed my story. You guys ROCK!! I just want to give shout outs to a couple reviewers who have hung with me including Pretty Words Like Blades, Ophelia, SuperGirl101, AvidTVFan, Swim6516, Authors-Anonymous, Green Eve, SunLight, ProudMary, JCTigerWolfe4me, Someone, hlf 2002, Luisa, I love it, Me, Arianna, LCI- 02/03 and AnonymousThinker. You guys have reviewed multiple chapters and I just love you for it! (If I missed someone, please email and let me know!)  
  
To those of you who emailed me personally to thank me for introducing you to the authors mentioned in the story, well. . . there is no better compliment I can receive. When someone tells me they have a new love for Pablo Neruda or Tom Stoppard (etc.), I literally walk on air for hours.  
  
So, thanks. : - )  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
Rory walks towards Luke's diner, hunching her shoulders against the morning chill. Her backpack is heavy, its contents holding the evidence of Chilton's academic rigor. Its weight causes her to walked pitched slightly forward in order to maintain both balance and momentum. As the heels of her saddle shoes click out a rhythmic cadence on the not quite frozen sidewalk, she reflects on the events of the past month.  
  
'Has it really been a month?' she wonders, her mind tumbling backwards to a conversation on a bed with her mother and Lane. Despite admitting that her feelings for Jess don't fit neatly within the boundaries of platonic friendship, that's exactly the course she has plotted and pursued. Friendship. She and Jess have established an easy, yet illusorily frustrating pattern of. . . 'What?' she thinks. 'Friendship? Camaraderie? Detente?' None of those words exactly defines the feeling she calls "Jess" but she can't come up with anything more descriptive.  
  
It's a fragile illusion, a house of cards, whose existence depends upon her pretending that all she wants from Jess is his company. Nothing more. Through sheer willpower she ignores the small tug that whispers, 'stand closer to him' in her ear. She conquers the force that lifts her hand upward urging 'touch him' by stopping her hand in midair and letting it fall to her lap. Temptation licks at her fingers, promising sweet salvation but she steels herself against this unfamiliar unsettling longing.  
  
Pushing these feelings deep down to the place that even she doesn't dare look at, she crosses her fingers and hopes he can't see it. Hopes he doesn't sense her weakness or feel her torment.  
  
She craves his company. She requires his presence almost the same way she requires air. Her old hobby of studying him has been made obsolete by their newfound friendship, this curious truce they've tacitly agreed to maintain. However, she has picked up a strange new habit of searching for him in crowds, scanning other faces for signs of his features.  
  
'What's better,' she wonders, 'drowning in him all at once or losing my mind slowly in this excruciating game of make believe?'  
  
Her rational mind has convinced her that friendship is the preferable option, the only viable alternative. It seems less risky, less scary. So, she hides her heart under the bed and locks her secret drawer. She washes the whispering angels from her head in the morning when she shampoos and prays that they'll behave for one more day. It's a confusing dichotomy, this internal tug-of-war, but it allows her to be part of his world, to call him friend. She's determined to make that be enough.  
  
Rory's hand reaches out to grasp the doorknob of Luke's diner when the door unexpectedly opens. Startled, Rory jumps slightly as Jess's form emerges from the diner to stand outside in the blue-tinted morning light. Seeing that he has frightened her, he grins.  
  
"Hey," Jess says in a low voice, the cold temperature turning his breath into fog.  
  
"Hey," Rory greets in return, smiling shyly at him.  
  
"Sorry I scared you," he states.  
  
"Well, you can't help that you're scary," she teases before realizing how much truth is contained in that simple sentence. Changing the subject, she asks, "Are you leaving?"  
  
Jess smirks. "Yup."  
  
"I mean, I see that you're leaving, cause you just walked out the door and why would you walk out the door if you weren't leaving?" Rory rambles.  
  
Jess's smirk grows as he shoves his hands into his pockets seeking their warmth while he waits for her.  
  
Collecting herself, she continues, "What I meant was, where are you going?"  
  
"School."  
  
"It's too early for school," Rory observes, pulling back her mitten to check her watch. "It doesn't start for another hour."  
  
"For me, it starts in a few minutes."  
  
"Jess, do you have detention again?" she questions, sounding exasperated.  
  
Jess doesn't answer her, but instead glances furtively at his feet before looking up to meet her eyes with a guilty grin.  
  
"What did you do this time?" Rory sighs, wrapping her arms around herself to protect against the frost-edged wind.  
  
"Nothing," Jess responds with a careless shrug.  
  
"Uh huh. Stars Hollow High routinely gives people detention for no reason."  
  
"You noticed that too?"  
  
"What did you do? Put blue food coloring in the mashed potatoes?"  
  
"Most people don't get the recommended daily allowance of vitamins from the blue food group," he deadpans.  
  
"Or, did you teach the foreign kids fake English phrases full of swear words?"  
  
"Breaking down cultural language barriers can only strengthen the melting pot that we call America," Jess responds sarcastically with a gleam in his eyes.  
  
"C'mon. Tell me."  
  
"I was wrongly accused."  
  
"Sounds like you need a good lawyer."  
  
"Maybe I just need a good journalist to generate public sympathy for me."  
  
"Sympathy for you in Stars Hollow? You'd need a miracle."  
  
"Every day."  
  
"Tell you what. . . I'll call Anne Sullivan. She might have one more miracle up her sleeve that she could spare for you. I'd offer to call Jerry Garcia but he's, you know, dead."  
  
"Isn't Anne Sullivan dead too?"  
  
"Hmm. . . Well, I guess you're out of luck then," Rory notes in mock seriousness, shaking her head.  
  
Her walk to the diner has colored her cheeks and nose winter pink. The silent wind lifts her hair off her shoulders so it swirls just below her knit cap, gently dancing against her neck. Absently, she brushes it away from her face with a mitten-clad hand.  
  
Jess observes her quietly, noting her flushed face, the way she stands to brace against the cold, her flowing hair, her sparkling eyes. When his eyes return to hers, Rory is surprised to discover a look she can't quite interpret in their liquid brown depths.  
  
"Too bad there isn't a journalist around with a soft spot in her heart for me, who's willing to tell the world my story," he breathes, moving closer to her.  
  
"Yeah," she agrees, swallowing hard. "That is a shame."  
  
Jess grins at her, enjoying her momentary discomfort. Gesturing towards the school with a tilt of his head, he says, "I should go."  
  
"I guess I'll see you later."  
  
"Guess so," Jess says softly as he begins walking away.  
  
Rory watches him cross the street and on impulse calls out, "Try to stay out of trouble."  
  
Jess turns to look at her, smiles broadly, and continues walking. No promises are exchanged this quiet winter morning.  
  
As Rory enters the diner she is greeted by Luke's very angry voice shouting "No!"  
  
"Now, Luke," Taylor intones patronizingly, "You are a part of this business community and as such, you must participate-"  
  
"No!" Luke interrupts. "Listen to me Taylor. . . No! No! No! No! No! No!!"  
  
"We're just talking about one inflatable astronaut."  
  
"Oh," Luke replies. "I thought you wanted me to hang miniature green Martian lights on the windows. Since it's just one, uh. . . I'm assuming it's life-sized?. . ."  
  
"Oh yes, and amazingly lifelike."  
  
"OK, since it's just one life-sized and lifelike inflatable astronaut, my answer is. . . 'NO!'"  
  
"Luke, be reasonable."  
  
"Taylor, right now, not tossing you out of here on your head is as reasonable as I'm going to get."  
  
"Would you prefer the green Martian lights because I can get them back from Bootsy. He has a fondness for Martians and the color green, but say the word and they're yours."  
  
"The word that's coming to mind right now isn't something I can repeat in public."  
  
"But-"  
  
"NO!"  
  
"Don't force my hand, Luke. I'll bring this up at the next town meeting if I have to."  
  
"You do that, Taylor."  
  
Huffing, Taylor turns to exit the diner. Before leaving, he stops and in the most threatening voice he can muster states, "This isn't over."  
  
"Taylor, they need a new word for 'over' to describe how incredibly over this is."  
  
"Hmpf," Taylor sniffs as he brushes shoulders with Rory in his irritation and haste to leave. She teeters slightly, the weight of her backpack throwing off her precarious balance. Watching her sway, Luke rushes over to her, placing both hands on her shoulders to prevent her fall.  
  
"Are you OK?" he asks her, concerned.  
  
"Yeah," she answers. "Thanks."  
  
Luke grins and asks, "You want some coffee?"  
  
"Please!" she responds, smiling as she pulls her cap off her head. Walking to a counter stool and removing her backpack she asks, "Umm. . . did I understand correctly that Taylor has an inflatable doll he wants to give you?"  
  
Luke stops abruptly, a look of horror flashing momentarily in his eyes.  
  
"Luke?" she questions.  
  
"Bad visual," he mutters.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing," he says, recovering. "He wants me to decorate the diner for the town's Space Festival this weekend."  
  
"And I for one am shocked and ashamed that you won't," Kirk interjects.  
  
"Stay out of this, Kirk," Luke states flatly.  
  
"Really, with all the crowding in the world, celebrating space is our civic duty," Kirk asserts.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Luke asks as he pours coffee for Rory.  
  
"Space is a valuable yet diminishing commodity. I mean, look at the poor farmers. With urban sprawl all but overtaking Stars Hollow, where are they supposed to put their baby chickens and cows? Even though you may not care about saving farmland and meadows, the rest of us do. You won't be happy until every last amber wave of grain in this country is covered in asphalt, will you?"  
  
"Kirk," Luke sighs, "It's not a celebration of 'Open Space', it's a celebration of 'Outer Space'."  
  
"Oh. . . Well. . . That wasn't clear."  
  
"That's why I'm telling you."  
  
"That astronaut doll makes more sense now. Are you really not going to display it?"  
  
"Not in this lifetime."  
  
"Do you think he'd let me have it, then?" Kirk asks, brightening.  
  
"Why don't you go ask him?"  
  
"I better hurry before someone else beats me to it," Kirk muses aloud as he tosses several dollar bills on the counter and quickly exits the diner.  
  
Luke grins as he watches Kirk leave.  
  
"Why are we having a Space Festival?" Rory asks between sips of coffee.  
  
"Apparently, it's the 42nd anniversary of Yogi Gagarin orbiting the earth."  
  
"Yuri," Rory corrects him.  
  
"What?" Luke questions, puzzled.  
  
"If you're talking about the first man in space, his name was Yuri Gagarin."  
  
"What'd I say?"  
  
"You said 'Yogi'."  
  
"Oh, I meant Yuri. Yogi was a bear."  
  
"And Jeremiah was a bullfrog but. . . Unlike Yuri, Yogi and Jeremiah do not have moon craters named after them," Rory observes. She pauses before saying, "Is it just me or do you think it's weird to celebrate the 42nd anniversary of something?"  
  
"See. . . Your mistake is that you're trying to make sense of what happens in this town. It's better to just go with it. Trust me on this."  
  
"I wonder if they'll serve freeze-dried ice cream?" Rory wonders aloud, becoming more animated. "That's what the astronauts eat in space."  
  
"Please don't encourage Taylor."  
  
"Maybe John Glenn will speak. Or Neil Armstrong!"  
  
"OK, you're slipping over to the dark side."  
  
"I once wrote a paper on Robert Goddard. I called it 'Soaring in the Shadow of Orville and Wilbur, Robert Goddard - The Father of Modern Rocketry'."  
  
"You're scaring me."  
  
"I got an A."  
  
"Don't you have a bus to catch?"  
  
Rory checks her watch and jumps from her stool, muttering, "Uh oh." Downing the last of her coffee, she places the cup back on the counter and smiles at Luke. As she makes her way to the door, she says to him, "Do you want me to try to find an alien costume in your size? You could wear it to the festival."  
  
"Bye, Rory."  
  
Laughing she says, "Bye, Luke."  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
By the time Jess's final class is done in the afternoon, the transformation of Stars Hollow's town square into an intergalactic space station has already begun. As he crosses the street on his way to the diner, Jess stops mid-stride and stares, his face a mixture of awe and revulsion.  
  
Silver and black streamers hang suspended from light pole to light pole. What appear to be flying saucers, but on closer examination reveal themselves as pie tins wired together, hang from the trees. Dueling banners battle for attention above the gazebo. One reads, 'Blast Off to an Adventure in Outer Space,' while the other proclaims, 'Stars Hollow Galaxy Quest.'  
  
Jess is startled by a voice over a megaphone intoning, "Stand back everyone! Coming through! Everybody out of the way!"  
  
Jess's feet come unglued from the pavement as he jumps backwards to avoid colliding with Kirk. Kirk, wearing a silver space helmet, has one arm wrapped around an inflatable astronaut while his other hand holds the onerous bullhorn.  
  
"Nice helmet," Jess smirks.  
  
"Thank you," Kirk replies.  
  
"Exactly what are you doing?"  
  
"I am trying to clear the area so the workmen can bring in the telescope," Kirk answers. Looking off to the side, he raises the megaphone to his mouth and blasts "Look lively people!"  
  
"A telescope?"  
  
"Yes, it's on loan from the Providence Naval Observatory. It will be here through the weekend for the Space Festival."  
  
"Ah. That's what this is."  
  
"Kirk," Taylor says harshly as he approaches, "give me that bullhorn."  
  
"For the duration of the festival, I'd prefer you to address me as Captain Kirk," Kirk answers, frowning as Taylor whips the megaphone out of his hand.  
  
"I will do nothing of the sort," Taylor replies grumpily. "Patty needs your help with the moonwalk skit. I'll take over supervision of the telescope delivery, which," he pauses to look directly at Jess, "will be chained and locked down to prevent theft."  
  
The corners of Jess's mouth inch upwards. "Gee Taylor, I'm curious," he draws. "Is there some sort of black market for stolen telescopes that I don't know about?"  
  
"What?" Taylor replies, looking nervous. "No, of course not," he backpedals.  
  
"I wonder how much they go for."  
  
"Now see here young man. I'll not tolerate any shenanigans from you. This telescope will be under lock and key and constant surveillance if I have to stand guard over it myself."  
  
"Relax, Taylor," Jess states scowling.  
  
"Excuse me," Kirk interrupts.  
  
"What is it Kirk?" Taylor snaps.  
  
"I'd really prefer to reenact an episode of Star Trek instead of the moon walk."  
  
"Oh for goodness sake! It's already been decided. We're doing the moon walk - it's historically significant and involves the American flag."  
  
"Star Trek is also historically significant and. . . let's just add a flag or two. No one will notice. We can start with the tribble episode and-"  
  
"I said 'no'. And why are you carrying the astronaut around?"  
  
"I don't want it to get stolen."  
  
"For a town with no crime, you people are really worried about theft," Jess observes.  
  
Moving the astronaut doll behind his back, Kirk informs Taylor, "You can't have it back."  
  
As one of the workmen delivering the telescope approaches the trio, Jess uses the distraction to slip away unnoticed. He walks towards the diner, eyes widening as he passes a table laden with bobbing head Buzz Aldrin figures. On the other side of the street, the town troubadour wanders by singing 'Spirit in the Sky.' While Jess watches, a miniature flying Sputnik replica that's tethered to a telephone pole smacks the troubadour in the forehead. The troubadour stands silent for a moment before dropping backwards like a freshly chopped tree.  
  
"Talk about a one hit wonder," Jess mutters to himself as people scurry to assist the fallen singer.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
Jess leans, elbows on the counter at Luke's diner. Reading, his face is a study of concentration. Turning the book's page, he hears the door jingle lightly to announce the arrival of a new customer. Glancing up, Jess straightens his spine as a slow lazy smile overtakes him. The smile is returned by Rory as she approaches.  
  
"How was detention?" she asks, sitting at the counter.  
  
"Thrilling," he answers.  
  
"I'll bet."  
  
Jess places his book on the counter as he turns to lift the coffee pot. Asking her if she wants coffee is as unnecessary as asking Madonna if she wants attention. While he pours a cup of her liquid addiction, she picks up his book.  
  
Holding it up she asks, incredulously, "Are you reading this?"  
  
Smirking, he answers, "That is one of the generally accepted uses for a book, yes."  
  
Without a word, she leans down and retrieves a book from her backpack. Grinning, she hands it to him.  
  
"No way," Jess says.  
  
"Way," Rory counters laughing.  
  
They each hold in their hands identical paperback copies of the same book, Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins.  
  
"I think I'm father along that you are," she speculates, looking at the position of the bookmark in his copy, which she still holds.  
  
"Yeah, but I've read it before. You better be nice to me or I'll tell you how it ends."  
  
"You wouldn't!"  
  
Jess shifts forward to resume his original elbow-leaning position and grins devilishly at her.  
  
"What's the last part you read?" he asks.  
  
"Well, let's see," she begins. "Alobar is a medieval king who decides to achieve immortality. So far, he's been alive for several centuries with his wife, Kudra, due to the combination of hot baths, a circular breathing technique, and a perfume they created. I love the parallel storyline with the three different teams in the present day who are searching for the perfume's base note - it's totally suspenseful and hilarious! Anyway, Alobar and the ancient god, Pan, are trying to figure out how to rescue Kudra from the netherworld after she and Alobar intentionally 'jump' there to check things out."  
  
"Oh, you're at the part where it really starts getting good."  
  
"It's already good."  
  
"It gets better though, wait till Alobar-"  
  
"Jess!" she cries, panic stricken. Immediately, she places her hands over her ears and, like a 5-year old, chants, "I'm not listening, I'm not listening, I'm not listening. . ."  
  
Jess observes her with intense amusement, his eyes laughing. Shaking his head he leans across the counter and pulls her hands down. She smiles at him and says, "If you're going to tell me the ending, I'll have to leave."  
  
"You know," he says, his voice warm, "if my lips had something else to do, they probably wouldn't misbehave."  
  
Rory blushes. Looking down, she realizes he's still holding onto her arms after pulling her hands from her ears. Slowly, his thumbs begin stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of her delicate wrists causing tiny pinpricks of goose bumps to scurry up her arms.  
  
Gasping, Rory tries to remember that friendship is safer and, up until today, he has willingly played along with her charade. Now, she feels confused, off-center. She trembles as a flood of sensations lashes at her.  
  
Watching her reaction, Jess's eyes darken and cloud. He feels like a tiger that's been caged for too long and is now pacing, desperate for release. He makes a decision that he will not be the one to break their contact. While his thumbs make light teasing circles over the veins in her wrists, he waits to see what she will do.  
  
"Tom Robbins uses scent as a catalyst for much of what happens in Jitterbug Perfume," Rory whispers. Her arms feel like molten puddles but she makes no move to pull them away.  
  
Jess holds her eyes and continues his ministrations on her wrists. "Smell is a powerful memory trigger," he murmurs.  
  
"Apparently so are beets," she breathes.  
  
"Lusty vegetables," he agrees.  
  
Conversation is becoming more difficult for Rory. "I love the way Robbins writes. . ." she pauses to formulate her thoughts, "pairing words that don't normally go together to create unexpected meaning."  
  
His hands expertly release their grasp of her wrists as his fingers join his thumbs on the inside of her forearms. His touch is feather light, like a firefly, trailing up her arms and moving back down to her palms.  
  
She shivers. Her eyes lock on his.  
  
Struggling to remain coherent, her breathing grows heavy. "The writing is lush, poetic, magical, layered, and raw. It's so different. . ." she trails off.  
  
Watching for any sign of resistance and detecting none, Jess steps silently around the corner of the counter and moves closer to her. Continuing his caresses, his hands never leave her skin.  
  
"Robbins is in a class by himself," he says, his voice soft. "He was once quoted as saying that a woman in pink circus tights contains all the secrets of the universe."  
  
"Mmm. . ." she sighs, closing her eyes, her heart pounding, her body hypersensitive.  
  
"He said he was seduced by books. He refers to them as 'cradle-robbers', saying they captured a tow-headed, blue-eyed, pre-literate innocent and turned him into a paragraph junkie."  
  
"Seduced?. . ." she mutters, her head involuntarily falling back slightly.  
  
Jess stands next to her now, his fingers burning trails on her skin. He leans over and inhales her own powerful perfume.  
  
"Rory," he whispers, his lips centimeters from her ear. "What are you feeling?"  
  
Her mind is passion-fogged, yet she tries to make sense of his question, "Feeling?"  
  
"Tell me," he urges, his voice husky. "Tell me right now. How do you feel?"  
  
Opening her eyes, she looks up to find him gazing at her from under hooded lids. His eyes are longing and dangerous.  
  
Her body responds. Her nerves tingle.  
  
"I feel. . ." she breathes. "I feel. . ."  
  
"Jess!" Luke's voice booms.  
  
Cursing silently, Jess automatically steps away from Rory. Their contact broken, Rory feels instantly abandoned. She brings her tingling arms in close to her body and holds them. Her stool is cold and she mourns the loss of Jess's warmth.  
  
Running a hand through his hair, Jess turns angrily towards the kitchen. "What?!"  
  
"I need your help unloading this shipment."  
  
"In a minute," Jess responds.  
  
"Not in a minute. Now!" Luke orders sternly, staring daggers at Jess.  
  
Jess sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to Rory. "I'm sorry," he mutters, eyes scanning her flushed face for a remnant of want, a sign of regret.  
  
"It's OK," she responds, not entirely sure what she means. Was it OK that he touched her or OK that he stopped? What was the question he asked. . . 'How do you feel'? Honestly, she feels too many things to sort them and find the one response that would explain her emotions.  
  
Bewildered, she looks up at him and gestures towards the door, "I should. . ."  
  
"Right," he nods.  
  
"Jess!" Luke's voice calls from the back of the diner.  
  
"Coming!" Jess responds in annoyance. When he looks at Rory, she is halfway across the diner. This time, she doesn't say goodbye before she leaves.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
A/N: In addition to being a Robbin's paragraph junkie, I'm also a review junkie! Thanks for reading! : - ) 


	9. Stephen Hawking

A/N: Sorry this update was so long in coming. I spent hours updating this chapter and, fumbling a save, lost ALL my updates. After much crying, pouting and gnashing of teeth, I decided to get over myself and start again. Then, I had to re-read much of A Brief History of Time because a physicist, I am not. In return for taking so long, you guys get an extra long chapter. Consider it your reward for your patience.  
  
Also, like the question in that old Rod-Stewart-but-Van-Morrison-did-it- much-better song, have I told you lately that I love you? If not, mea culpa because, I do! Your reviews are sustaining and more appreciated than you will ever know. Thanks for hanging with me!  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
"Are you ready?" Lane's voice nervously calls from outside Rory's closed bedroom door.  
  
"Let's see it," Rory responds from within her bedroom.  
  
Rory's bedroom door opens and Lane tentatively enters. Spinning around, she twirls to a stop and, chewing on her bottom lip asks, "What do you think?"  
  
Rory surveys her friend. Her eyes start at the long sleeved silver t- shirt, move to the red paisley men's necktie secured around her neck, and then travel to the army-green cargo pants Lane wears. The most mysterious item, a full-length ethereal pink ballet tutu, has been placed on top of the cargo pants, and comes to rest just above Lane's black Doc Martens. Curious, Rory's gaze travels back upward where she makes eye contact with Lane. Attempting to strike a nonchalant pose, Lane's her eyes unwittingly transmit the apprehension she is valiantly trying to hide.  
  
"Incredible!" Rory responds enthusiastically, hoping to put her friend at ease. "Put a pair of deely-boppers on your head and you'll be all ready for the festival."  
  
"Ah," Lane sighs, wrinkling her nose. "What you're saying is this look is more 'alien mutant', than 'Avril Lavigne'?"  
  
Rory's eyes widen in shock as she realizes her mistake. Before she can stop herself, she sputters, "That's your drumming outfit?"  
  
"Forget it," Lane utters dismissively with a wave of her hand. Shoulders slumping, she begins to exit Rory's room mumbling, "I'll never get this right."  
  
Scrambling to prevent her friend's departure, Rory scurries across the room and gently captures Lane's arm. "No, no, no. . . " Rory protests, gingerly guiding Lane back into her bedroom.  
  
"I'm sorry Lane," she begins. "Don't worry. This is fixable. The outfit's bones are good, it just needs a little rework. Oh. . . I have a great idea!"  
  
She leads Lane to her bed and forces her to sit. "Wait right here," Rory commands.  
  
Once Lane is properly situated, Rory sprints across her room. Pausing briefly at the door, she grins, "If you lose the necktie and tutu before I come back, I'll let that whole 'Avril Lavigne' comment slide by mock-free!"  
  
Loosening the tie, Lane starts giggling.  
  
"Any doubt I might have had about you being my best friend just disappeared!" she calls to Rory's departing back.  
  
When Rory returns to her room moments later, Lane looks decidedly less like an extra from a Mad Max movie and more like her best friend.  
  
"Here," Rory says, stepping over the discarded tutu, as she walks towards Lane. Handing her a shirt she urges, "put this on."  
  
Whipping off the silver t-shirt, Lane pulls the shirt Rory has just given her over her head. Standing to look at herself in Rory's mirror, Lane grins broadly.  
  
"Oh, it's perfect!" Lane trills, beaming at her reflection. Turning to Rory she continues, "I love it!"  
  
Seeing her mother's rhinestone adorned 'porn star' t-shirt on Lane, Rory grins too.  
  
"Much better," Rory agrees.  
  
"It matches the pants and boots but it's not too match-y. It also hugs my curves. . ." pausing, she catches a glint of laughter in Rory's eyes. "I have curves, you know."  
  
"Oh, absolutely," Rory deadpans.  
  
"Like I said, it's the right amount of curve-hugging-tight so you can tell I'm a girl which you wouldn't think would be important when you're sitting behind a massive drum set, but trust me, it is. This shirt has the perfect rebel attitude that shouts 'I am reclaiming a feminine archetype from the male-dominated world of sexual fantasy so that it no longer symbolizes female oppression and degradation but womanly empowerment!'"  
  
"I was just going to say that."  
  
"Plus, I look sexy."  
  
"And very Rock-n-Roll."  
  
"Really?" Lane squeals.  
  
"Totally! Dave is going to love you in that."  
  
"Oh my God, I'm going to be sexy in front of Dave. I may faint!"  
  
"Of course, you could wear a potato sack and Dave would still think you looked hot."  
  
Lane turns and approaches the bed on which her best friend sits cross- legged. Sitting across from her and assuming the same position, Lane places her head in her hands sighing, "I'm so in love."  
  
"I know. It's really cute!"  
  
"Speaking of love, hotties and cute-ness, what's up with you and Jess? You haven't mentioned him lately."  
  
"That's because I'm pretending that he and I are just friends."  
  
"Uh huh. How's that working for you?"  
  
"Remember the drummer in Spinal Tap who spontaneously combusts?"  
  
"Remember him? I have nightmares about those Spinal Tap drummers all the time!"  
  
"Do you really?"  
  
"Oh yeah. . . I can't tell you how many times I've woken up in a cold sweat after dreaming of being killed in a bizarre gardening accident. It's so crazy. I mean, I don't even own a hoe."  
  
"Well, I think freak drummer deaths is something unique to the Tap. Besides, your band has nothing in common with them."  
  
"Actually," Lane muses, "we do share some of their gig-landing difficulties."  
  
"But do your amps go to eleven?"  
  
"No," Lane sighs, "they only go to ten."  
  
"Therein end your Spinal Tap similarities. You'll probably die nowhere near a garden."  
  
"Surprisingly, that is not comforting. Wait a minute. . . why are we talking about Spinal Tap? Were you going somewhere with this?"  
  
"Oh yeah," Rory remembers. Looking at Lane sheepishly she admits, "Lately, when I'm around Jess, I feel like I'm going to burst into flames."  
  
"It's that bad, huh?"  
  
"The other day. . . in the diner. . . all he did was touch my arms and I swear, I couldn't even remember my name."  
  
"It's Rory."  
  
"It came to me about 20 minutes later but, you know, thanks anyways."  
  
"Oh anytime! That's what I'm here for."  
  
The girls are interrupted by the sound of the Gilmore front door banging open.  
  
"Rory?" Lorelai's voice calls from the front entrance of the Gilmore house.  
  
"In here," Rory answers from her bedroom.  
  
"Wait till you see what I-" Lorelai says while entering Rory's room. In her hand she carries a large vinyl garment bag, which she holds high above her head to keep from dragging it on the ground. Pausing when she spies Lane, she smiles, "Hi Lane!"  
  
"Hey!" Lane sings, returning the greeting.  
  
"Cool shirt! You look bitchin'!"  
  
"Oh, I let her borrow it to complete her rock star persona," Rory explains.  
  
"If it's a problem, I can give it back," Lane quickly interjects, looking worried.  
  
"Don't be silly. It looks great on you. Very early punk Debbie Harry! However. . . if Mama Kim sees you in it, I know absolutely nothing about that t-shirt and I've never met you before in my life."  
  
"Yes, stealth is unfortunately necessary in this case," Lane agrees. Turning to Rory she explains, "Mama probably wouldn't see the take-back-the- night reclamation of a formerly offensive stereotype as 'fighting the power' of male oppression."  
  
"Plus, it's sparkly," Rory points out. "That's probably not allowed."  
  
"I guess I should leave it here," Lane says resignedly.  
  
"Sounds like a good idea," Lorelai encourages.  
  
"Can I keep it on until I leave?" she asks hopefully.  
  
"Absolutely!" Lorelai affirms. "But, I don't think you'll be wearing it long because you will want to go with me to the diner. In fact, you should both be there to witness me bestowing this gift I hold in my hot little hand on Luke."  
  
"Oooh, presents!" Rory coos, clapping her hands. "What did you get him?"  
  
Unzipping the garment bag and pulling its sides back, Lorelai triumphantly says, "Feast your eyes on this bad boy!"  
  
"Oh my God," Lane drawls, her chin dropping to her chest.  
  
"That's for Luke?" Rory asks, unsure of what she is beholding.  
  
Grinning from ear to ear, Lorelai nods. She whips the garment bad completely off and walks to Rory's mirror, holding the regulation Star Trek officer's uniform in front of her.  
  
"Didn't you know?" Lorelai begins incredulously, while standing behind the uniform to gaze at her own reflection. "Luke is a closet Trekkie."  
  
"No!" gasps Lane.  
  
"Yes!" Lorelai assures her. "Today, I am outing him!"  
  
"Luke seems pretty happy in his closet," Rory observes.  
  
"That's what he wants you to think. Inside, he's empty and alone, longing for fellowship with other members of the Starship Enterprise. The Space Festival provides the perfect opportunity for our Luke to come out of the shadows and embrace his geekiness. From today on, he leaves the darkness behind him to walk in the sunshine."  
  
"I don't think Luke wants to stand in the light," Rory reasons. "He likes the dark. He's like a vampire, or Ozzy Osbourne. You know, if they wore flannel."  
  
"Going through life in denial of your true self is no way to live. Today, Luke Danes is going to take the first steps that will lead him down the pathway of self-actualization. He will discover the freedom that comes from standing tall and saying to the world 'I am a Trekkie, and I don't care who knows it'."  
  
"You don't seriously expect him to wear that uniform, do you?"  
  
"Oh grasshopper, you underestimate the feminine wiles of your mother and the power of Gilmore charm. Besides, he better wear it if he knows what's good for him. I didn't just shell out $49.99 to rent this thing for nothing."  
  
"Did you check the company's return policies? If the costume is returned shredded, will you still get your deposit back?"  
  
"You know, your negativity is starting to interfere with my moment. I need you to work with me here. Try to picture Luke walking proud wearing this uniform, speaking into the Com badge and setting his Phasers on stun," Lorelai pauses in her revelry to place a hand on her heart. "It brings a tear to my eye. Thank God Luke has me."  
  
"Amen, sister!" Lane cries.  
  
"May the force be with you," Rory adds for good measure.  
  
"That's the spirit!" Lorelai exclaims, nodding her head. "You girls make me proud. Now, c'mon, let's get ready to set Luke free so he can boldly go where no diner owner has gone before!"  
  
Seeing Lane begin to change clothes, Rory teases, "If you'd rather stay here and lounge in the porn star t-shirt for a while longer, I think mom would understand."  
  
"Are you kidding?! I wouldn't miss this for the world!" Lane states, smiling.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
Luke emerges from the kitchen in time to witness the trio of women entering the diner. He hesitates slightly as he notes Lorelai's too casual walk towards the counter. On instinct, his eyes slide to the girls to discover the half-guilty, half-amused looks on their faces. Bells of warning begin to alarm in his head. By the time his glance returns to Lorelai, she is already seated on a counter stool, her face, a mask of practiced nonchalance. Sensing something slightly off, he leans slightly over the counter, spying a strange plastic garment bag on the stool next to Lorelai.  
  
"No," Luke states flatly, tossing a dishtowel over one shoulder so it hangs at the ready.  
  
"What?" Lorelai questions.  
  
"Whatever you want, the answer is 'No'."  
  
"Now Luke-y," she begins in mock innocence. "What makes you think I want something?"  
  
"Don't call me Luke-y," he orders, placing one hand on the counter while the other rests on his hip. "You have your 'I'm about to make a ridiculous and unreasonable request of Luke simply to torment him' look on your face."  
  
"I have no such look!" she protests.  
  
"Spare me. Even if you didn't, those two," he pauses to gesture at Rory and Lane, "are dead giveaways."  
  
Recognizing that Luke has turned his radar on them, the pair immediately look away and feign casual disinterest. Lorelai glances at the girls over her shoulder as they sit at a nearby table.  
  
When she turns back around, Luke tells her, "They don't exactly have poker faces."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," she assures him. "I'm just here for coffee."  
  
"Uh huh," he says warily studying her for a moment before turning to get a coffee mug and the pot.  
  
Setting the mug in front of her, he pours coffee while Lorelai grins impishly at him.  
  
"What's in the bag?" he asks, his mouth set in a scowl, his eyes watching Lorelai with hawk-like sharpness.  
  
"Oh, you mean this bag?"  
  
"That'd be the one."  
  
"Gee, I almost forgot. I brought you a little present."  
  
"Take it back."  
  
"How can you say that? You don't even know what it is."  
  
"I don't need to know what it is. I'm pretty sure I don't want it."  
  
"That's not very gracious of you. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth? Keep it up and I'll never buy you another gift."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
Conversation between Luke and Lorelai ensues as a voice behind Rory and Lane asks "What's going on over there?"  
  
Lane turns towards the voice and a smile spreads across her features. "Hey Jess," she says in greeting to the voice's owner. "Rory, look," she continues, moving her gaze from Jess to Rory. "Jess is here."  
  
"Hi Jess," Rory says shyly, awkwardly.  
  
"Hey," Jess says softly to Rory, a small smile tugging at his lips. His eyes lock with hers as he notes the pink tint beginning to color her features. His smile grows. "You know, if you really want to spy on someone, you should at least pretend like you're not staring at them."  
  
"We're watching Luke's liberation," Lane explains.  
  
"He's about to be walking on sunshine," Rory elaborates.  
  
"You should make a note of the date and time so you can tell your grandkids exactly where you were when Luke cried freedom," Lane encourages.  
  
"Just like where you were when the OJ verdict came in," Rory supplies helpfully.  
  
"Or the first time you heard Yo La Tengo," Lane adds.  
  
"Is Lorelai proposing?" Jess asks confused.  
  
"What?" Lane half-speaks, half-laughs.  
  
"Please," Rory says rolling her eyes at Jess. "Try to focus."  
  
"Quiet!" Lane says hushing them. "I think it's about to get good."  
  
The teens fall into silence as they watch the interaction between Luke and Lorelai intensify.  
  
"She's unzipping it," Lane whispers.  
  
"Quick. . . How many seconds before Luke goes ballistic?" Rory whispers back.  
  
"My money's on 5," Lane answers.  
  
"OK, I got 4," Rory bets.  
  
"1, 2, 3-" Lane begins counting.  
  
Lane's countdown is interrupted by a volcanic explosion erupting from Luke as he realizes that Lorelai's garment bag contains a Star Trek uniform in his size.  
  
"Are you insane?!" Luke booms, backing up until he unwittingly crashes into the back counter near the coffee pot.  
  
"It's for your own good, Luke," Lorelai says, trying to reason with him.  
  
"My own good? I hate to break it to you but the tenuous grasp you held on reality. . ." he pauses for effect, "I think we can safely says that's gone."  
  
"Until you learn to accept all the parts of yourself, you'll never be truly happy."  
  
"I am in full acceptance of myself. I told you, I am NOT a Trekkie, closet or otherwise!"  
  
"It's OK to admit it Luke. We all accept and care for you, not matter what. Nothing can ever change that."  
  
"Listen to me Lorelai, I am NOT a Trekkie and I am NOT wearing that uniform!"  
  
"But the Federation needs you!"  
  
The three teenagers are smiling broadly, desperately trying to control their laughter.  
  
"That's beautiful," Jess grins.  
  
"Told you," Rory responds, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.  
  
Jess glances back and they hold each other's gaze, smiling. Lane steals a glance at the two and cannot hide the pleased look that overtakes her face. Turning away, she returns her attention to Luke and Lorelai.  
  
"For me?" Lorelai begs.  
  
"I don't know how many different ways I can say 'no'," Luke responds.  
  
"I'll eat a salad."  
  
"What?" Luke questions, doing a double take.  
  
Clearing her throat, Lorelai hesitates, "I said. . . I will eat a salad if you will wear this uniform."  
  
Luke thinks about it for a moment and responds. "Nope. Not good enough."  
  
Lorelai sighs. "OK, I will eat two salads."  
  
"Still not good enough."  
  
"I'm not giving up coffee."  
  
"I never asked you to," Luke answers, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Recognizing the look of challenge on his face, Lorelai covers her eyes with her hands for a moment. Squaring her shoulders, she removes her hands and says, "OK, I will eat salad everyday for a week."  
  
"Hmm. . ." Luke pauses, thinking. "Close but no cigar."  
  
"Well, what will it take?"  
  
Luke makes burning eye contact with Lorelai who doesn't look away. Luke's eyes grow liquid and Lorelai shifts under the intensity of his gaze.  
  
"You eat salad everyday for a week," he begins. "And by salad I mean green leafy stuff with carrots and tomatoes and other vegetables mixed in. . ."  
  
"Oh God," Lorelai murmurs.  
  
"And I get to watch you eat it to make sure you don't stuff it in a napkin and stick it in your purse-"  
  
"OK, I get it," Lorelai interrupts. "What else?"  
  
"Well, you owe me something."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just. . . something," Luke says evasively, his voice low. "I'll tell you when I think of it and, when I remind you that you owe me, you. . . well. . . owe me."  
  
"Sounds kinda cryptic," Lorelai breathes.  
  
Luke's eyes travel possessively over her face, down to her neck and then reclaim her eyes. He whispers, "Those are my terms. Take 'em or leave 'em."  
  
"I'll take 'em," Lorelai responds, her voice barely a whisper. For some unknown reason, she feels herself shiver.  
  
"OK," he mutters.  
  
As Luke watches her thoughtfully, Lorelai takes a sip of coffee to compose herself. Recovering, she bounces off the stool and thrusts the vinyl bag at Luke.  
  
"Go change," she orders, pushing him in the direction of the apartment stairs.  
  
"You know," he muses, as he stumbles along, "I think the one who's crazy may be me. I can't believe I let you talk me into this."  
  
"A deal's a deal," she reminds him. "Look on the bright side, at least you don't have to eat salad."  
  
As Luke disappears behind the curtain, Lorelai bounds over to the table where Rory, Lane, and Jess watch with stunned and amused expressions on their faces.  
  
"Rory," she begins, speaking rapidly, "Run home and get the camera."  
  
"Mom!" she cries in shocked horror.  
  
"We'll be lucky if he keeps that uniform on more than an hour. I want to preserve this for posterity."  
  
"But-" Rory says.  
  
"No 'buts'! Time's wasting. Go, go, go! Run like a bunny!"  
  
"But I don't know where the camera is!"  
  
"Lane," Lorelai commands, turning to Lane. "Go with her. Use your wonder twin powers together to find it."  
  
As the girls stand, Rory turns to Jess and asks, "Will you be at the festival?"  
  
"Have we met?" he asks her, smirking. "I'm Jess."  
  
"Right," Rory says nodding, trying her best to keep from grinning. Briefly, she glances at the ceiling before looking at Jess and saying, "Why do I even bother to ask you these questions?"  
  
"It's a mystery to me too," he grins.  
  
"Just to clarify," she begins. "You are not going to the festival?"  
  
"I'm manning the dunking booth," he states sarcastically.  
  
Rory's eyes knit together briefly as she glances quizzically at Jess. He returns her gaze and raises his eyebrows. This time, a full smile erupts on Rory's face. Sighing, she rolls her eyes and heads towards the door. As her hand touches the doorknob, she turns back and says, "See you later, Jess."  
  
Jess smiles and tilts his chin up once to acknowledge the 'goodbye'.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
"Luke!" Lorelai calls up the stairs.  
  
"What?" a muffled voice calls in return.  
  
"Get down here."  
  
"In a minute."  
  
"You said that 15 minutes ago."  
  
"I'm not ready," he calls.  
  
"You have to come down eventually."  
  
"Says who?"  
  
"Says seven days worth of salads and a mystery I.O.U."  
  
Luke's feet are heard coming very slowly down the stairs.  
  
"Is anybody besides you in the diner?" he asks from an unidentifiable location behind the curtain.  
  
"Umm. . . she says looking at the crowd that has formed in anticipation of Luke's Star Trek debut. "It's virtually empty," she lies.  
  
Luke emerges from behind the curtain as the diner falls into pin-drop silence. He stands awkwardly, clad in a vintage red Star Trek uniform from the original series. In addition to the red shirt and pants, Luke sports regulation black combat boots and a Star Trek insignia Com badge. Like a petulant child, he scowls and looks uncomfortably around while tugging at the neck of the costume.  
  
"Luke, my brother!" Kirk's voice is heard calling across the diner.  
  
The sea of people parts to reveal Kirk, who has just entered the diner, wearing the identical Star Trek officer's uniform. Kirk lifts his hand in the Vulcan salute and says "Live long and prosper."  
  
Seeing Kirk as a mirror image of his own appearance, Luke's face transforms from a look of acute embarrassment to absolute horror. From behind the counter, Jess is heard breaking into uncontrollable laughter.  
  
"That's it!" Luke yells, as he turns on his heel and sprints back up the stairs.  
  
"Standing in the light for 13.7 seconds," Lorelai sighs. "That's gotta be some sort of world record."  
  
"OK," Kirk announces loudly to the crowd, as he points at the curtain behind which Luke has just disappeared. "He can be Spock. Or even Captain Piccard. But I am Captain Kirk! Do you all hear me? I am Captain Kirk!"  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
"Oh no!" Rory exclaims while laughing. "Then what happened?"  
  
"Well, Luke came back downstairs wearing flannel and his baseball cap, and Kirk refused to speak to anyone who didn't address him as 'Captain'," Lorelai recaps.  
  
"I can't believe I missed it," Rory whines.  
  
"I can't believe we didn't get a picture of it. Where was the camera anyways?"  
  
"In the bathroom closet behind the economy sized bottle of Mr. Bubble."  
  
"Dang! Economy sized? No wonder it took so long to find it."  
  
"Yeah, there's the moral. . . Always buy Mr. Bubble in the small bottle."  
  
"What were we thinking?" Lorelai wonders.  
  
"Probably that we didn't want to run out of Mr. Bubble."  
  
"Damn our planning ways."  
  
"Lesson learned," Rory agrees. "At least we got a picture of Kirk's panic attack during the rebroadcast of Orson Welles' War of the Worlds."  
  
"You'd think Captain Kirk would be calmer."  
  
"Too bad we didn't have audio to go along with it," Rory says.  
  
"Camcorder. Put that on our list of things to buy."  
  
"Right after squirt guns."  
  
"I'm so glad you have your priorities straight," Lorelai says, yawning. "OK, I'm going to bed. I'll probably have nightmares about all those salads I have to eat this week."  
  
As Lorelai walks towards the stairs, Rory asks, "Was it worth it?"  
  
Lorelai grins, remembering. "The look on his face. . . cutest thing I ever saw. Well, next to you that is."  
  
Rory smiles. Walking over to Lorelai, she hugs her saying, "Night, mom."  
  
"Goodnight, honey," Lorelai responds, kissing the top of her daughter's head.  
  
Rory walks into her bedroom and realizes that she isn't tired. Electing to read before trying to sleep, she retrieves Tom Robbin's Jitterbug Perfume from her book bag. Flipping to the page near the book's end marked by her bookmarker, she becomes lost in the tale of le parfum supreme, savage bees, perfect tacos, Mardi Gras, feather-light hearts, and everything coming together at 9:00 tonight, Paris time.  
  
Finishing the book, Rory smiles. She feels the sort of melancholy restlessness she always feels when reaching the end of a book that unexpectedly thrusts a new perspective on her. Full of thoughts of universal possibilities and the meaning of life, Rory walks to her window and gazes at the stars. Her breath makes a small cloud on the cold windowpane as she tries to count all the tiny flecks of light sprinkled in the night sky. Knowing that sleep is a long way off for her, Rory decides to walk to the gazebo and look at the stars through the telescope before it is returned to Providence.  
  
She layers on her winter gear and silently slips unseen through the front door. It clicks quietly shut behind her as she steps out into the cold. Tonight, there is no wind to pierce through her coat, or to color her cheeks as she makes her way to the town square. She smiles as she looks at the remnants of the Space Festival. The moon bounce stands empty, bereft of the giggling voices of bouncing children. The booth manned by the local travel agency still contains some brochures jokingly offering interplanetary travel. 'Mars on a Budget', and 'Venus is for Lovers', pamphlets litter the booth's interior.  
  
'Good thing there's no wind tonight,' Rory thinks, smiling. 'Taylor would have a fit if those blew around.'  
  
A space yo-yo lies forgotten on a park bench as Rory nears the gazebo. She is startled out of her silent observations when a slight movement behind the telescope catches her eyes. Momentarily taken aback, she freezes and holds her breath. Unable to determine who or what it is, she silently pads forward, her tennis shoes offering little sound to announce her presence.  
  
As her eyes adjust to the darkness within the gazebo, Rory is able to make out the figure of another person, gazing into the telescope. Glancing around the gazebo, she determines that the person is alone. Only when he momentarily stands straight to observe the sky through his naked eyes, does Rory realize that it's Jess.  
  
Feeling herself relax, she walks up the steps in the gazebo.  
  
Without turning around to look at her, he says, "Fancy meeting you here."  
  
"I was just about to say the same thing to you."  
  
"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Jess asks, turning to face her.  
  
"I finished Jitterbug Perfume and couldn't sleep."  
  
Jess nods, understanding.  
  
Walking closer, gesturing to the telescope she asks, "Are you looking at the stars?"  
  
"The moon."  
  
"Can I?" she questions.  
  
Jess steps back and with a sweeping motion, offers her use of the telescope. Tentatively, Rory approaches. Closing one eye, she presses the other to the eyepiece.  
  
"I can't see anything," she murmurs.  
  
"Here," Jess says, moving behind her. He places his hands on either side of her and repositions her slightly to the left. "You have to stand right behind it," he explains.  
  
"Oh. . ." Rory stammers, coloring. His nearness sets her pulse racing, but she hides it by pressing her eye to the lens and looking through the telescope.  
  
"Wow," she breathes. The moon glows white and yellow, its subtle shadings and contours made more visible. She gazes at the moon's surface for a few moments, marveling at how different it looks when magnified. "It's beautiful," she whispers.  
  
"Want to see Orion?" Jess asks, his voice behind her is startlingly near.  
  
Straightening, Rory looks at Jess and nods.  
  
She takes a few steps back as he moves closer to the telescope. Gently, he repositions it. Taking a moment to readjust the focus and fine tune the angle, he finally steps back and says, "OK, check it out."  
  
Again, Rory steps up to the telescope and gazes through it. It is what she thought she came here for. . . the opportunity to closely study one of the stars she spied earlier from her bedroom. Looking at it for a moment she is quiet. Finally, she says, "It's beautiful too, except I can't see it as well as the moon."  
  
"Orion is farther away," Jess explains.  
  
"Yeah," she grins, standing up to face him. "I know."  
  
He smiles back at her.  
  
"You've been holding out on me," she accuses.  
  
Smirking, Jess backs up and sits on one of the gazebo's benches. He stretches his legs in front of him and slouches. Lifting his chin at an arrogant angle, he says evasively, "What do you mean?"  
  
Rolling her eyes, Rory sits on the bench across from him. She tucks her legs under her in a cross-legged position and says, "Explain to me again why you needed a tutor last year."  
  
"Because I was failing every subject," he answers as if he is explaining why you can't swim across the ocean to a 5-year old.  
  
"Anyone who can find Orion in the night sky does not need a physics tutor," she counters.  
  
"See now, that's where you're wrong. School physics is all about formulas and calculations and stupid little meaningless crap that they pound into your brain like nails. God, it's excruciating."  
  
"It's not that bad," she chuckles.  
  
"Are you kidding? All the teachers care about are numbers and formulas for useless things like speed and velocity, and making sure you can spit it all out on standardized tests. They never bother to tell you that the purpose of physics is to explain the mysteries of the universe, like. . . how time works, or if there's life out there and where and how we fit in. It's as if they say to themselves, 'let's take this really cool subject and make it as boring and as tedious as we possibly can'."  
  
"How would you proposed making physics more interesting?"  
  
"It wouldn't be that hard. Just. . . pull the focus out of the weeds and look at the big picture."  
  
"How exactly?"  
  
"I don't know. Start class with the theories of general relativity and quantum mechanics. Tell students that general relativity, which explains the force of gravity in the big world, and quantum mechanics, which deals with things on a small scale, are in direct conflict with each other."  
  
"So what?"  
  
"So, they can't both be true. Atomic particles don't behave according to the rules of general relativity, and quantum mechanics doesn't hold up when applied to big objects."  
  
"Wait a minute," Rory laughs. "Are you saying that Einstein's Theory of Relativity is wrong?"  
  
"Nope," Jess grins. "I'm not saying anything. Stephen Hawking is the one who pointed out the inconsistencies and even he isn't calling Einstein wrong."  
  
"Ah. So you read, A Brief History of Time."  
  
"Yup. Did you?"  
  
"Not yet. It's on my list but I haven't gotten to it."  
  
"It's the first time I ever understood what E=mc2 really implied and that there's more to physics than boring vector formulas."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Well, like black holes, the big bang, time itself, and the nature of God. Here's a question, the universe is expanding, right?"  
  
"Yeah. Edwin Hubble hypothesized and proved that back in 1924."  
  
"OK, so what's it expanding into?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean, what was there before if not the universe?"  
  
"I. . . I don't know," Rory admits, her eyebrows knitting together.  
  
"And does that mean it's limitless? Is there infinite space for expansion or will it run out? If so, will the universe contract? And what will happen to us when it does?"  
  
"Hmm. . ." Rory thinks aloud. "I'm embarrassed to admit it but I never thought about it."  
  
"Exactly my point. High School teaches physics without tying it together to give you any kind of understanding of the world. I just can't make myself care about that class."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
"What do you mean 'well what'? Tell me. . . is there infinite expansion space? Can the universe contract?"  
  
"You know, the last time I tried to tell you what happened in a book, you got a little. . . out of sorts."  
  
Rory blushes deeply in the darkness of the night. Pulling her legs out from under her, she places her feet on the gazebo floor. Out of nervous habit, she re-tucks her hair behind her ears.  
  
"I don't care," she says, not really knowing what she means. Looking at Jess she says, "I want to know what you know."  
  
"No," he says, stiffening. "You don't."  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Trust me Rory," Jess tells her, his tone serious. "You don't want to know what I know."  
  
"God, you can be so irritating," she says, exasperated. "You don't know what I want and don't want. Don't pretend that you do."  
  
"Really?" he says, his voice low and angry. "You want to know what I know, Rory? You want to know how to shoplift cans of soup from D'Agastinos because your mother disappeared for a week and you have no food in the house? Or do you want to know how to bandage your hand when you slice your palm trying to get the damn can opened?"  
  
"Jess-"  
  
"Or do you want to know how to avoid the neighborhood drug dealers who want you to run money for them? Or how about I tell you about the pedophiles searching for fresh young boys to lure into dark alleys? Are these the things you want to know?"  
  
She is on her feet and across the gazebo as he spits the last question at her. Crouching in front of him, she tries to grasp his hands but, angry, he pulls them away. He is suddenly very close to tears and having not cried since the day his father left when he was 5-years old, he is furious. Furious at himself for letting her get too close and furious with her for getting there.  
  
With his hands out of reach she places her hands on his knees. "Oh Jess," she says, her voice a wavering whisper. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."  
  
"I told you, you don't want to know what I know."  
  
"You're still wrong about that."  
  
Startled, he looks at her. His eyes search hers for signs of deceit or badly timed humor. Finding none, he continues to stare.  
  
"If you want to tell me that stuff, I'll listen, Jess. I meant it when I said I want to know what you know. I. . ." she pauses, searching for the words to make him understand. Meeting his piercing gaze she continues, "I want to know what a sunrise over the Brooklyn Bridge looks like. I want to know the quickest way to get across Midtown during morning rush. I want to know where the best coffee shop in Greenwich Village is. And I want to know what will happen if and when the universe finally contracts."  
  
The ability to speak seems to have left him and he cannot answer her.  
  
Standing she says, "Maybe some day, when you're ready, you'll tell me all these things."  
  
Remembering how he pulled away from her, she resists the urge to touch him and turns to exit the gazebo.  
  
In that brief moment, Jess snaps out of his stupor. To prevent her departure would be breaking her rules, breaking their tacit agreement to pretend that friendship is the only thing they feel towards each other. He has pushed her limits but he has never prevented her flight. Leaving is who she is. Indifferent is who he had always been. Together they are chase and run, shadow and light, temptation and salvation, scared and scared.  
  
On its own, his hand moves to grab hers. The simplicity of it reminds him of a Dick and Jane novel his first grade teacher expected him to read as if he hadn't already been reading for years.  
  
See sand. See line. Stay Jess, stay! See Rory. Take Rory's hand. Look behind you. See line.  
  
His heart pounds as he turns her towards him.  
  
She looks at his hand holding hers because it is easier than looking at his face.  
  
His other hand drifts to her waist as he begins softly, gently pulling her down onto his lap.  
  
Her legs slip to either side of him as her knees alight on the bench.  
  
He searches her face as she straddles him.  
  
She closes her eyes, unsure of what to do.  
  
He lets go of her hand and places both hands on her back.  
  
She gasps.  
  
He pulls her closer and closer until their torsos touch, and meld together.  
  
Instinctively her hands wrap around his back as he turns his head into her body and tucks his face into her neck.  
  
It feels so simple, so simple.  
  
They stay like that for long minutes, getting used to each other. Both scared, both hesitant. Jess feels Rory begin to relax as she gives into the melting sensation she has fought for so long. Slowly, his hands leave her back and travel to the front of her coat. Curious, she leans back to watch. When his hands still, she looks, at last, at his face. His eyes hold hers and she momentarily forgets to breathe. Keeping constant eye contact, he begins unfastening the buttons of her coat. His hands shake slightly and he hopes she can't tell. One button, two buttons, three. When her coat is open, Jess snakes his arms inside it and around her back. Hungry for her warmth, he pulls her close again as his head resumes its former position.  
  
Fascinated, Rory's mind is swirling. His arms feel strong and she feels safe. She lets out a contented sigh. Taking that as his cue, Jess tilts his head slightly so his lips brush her neck. Rory freezes as an avalanche of chills cascade across her chest. Jess quietly nuzzles her neck and kisses her delicate, sensitive skin. Moving his head to the other side of her, he kisses her neck just under her jaw. His lips are smooth and tender. Rory gasps when she feels his tongue slide out to taste her.  
  
Patiently, teasingly, he kisses his way to her ear. Sensations she has not even imagined flood powerfully through her. When his teeth lightly grasp her earlobe, another gasp escapes from her as an electric current emanates from her ear. Breathing heavily, Jess glances at her to be sure she's ready. The backwards tilt of her head, closed eyes and slightly parted lips tell him all he needs to know. Leaving her ear, his lips make their way towards hers.  
  
Taking her bottom lip between his, he stills, letting her get accustomed to the sensation, the feel of him. She leans slightly forward towards him, uncertain. He feels her tremble and impulsively slides his finger to the pulse in her neck. It is pounding. He moves his lips so they are even with hers as he kisses her softly. She makes a small noise. It takes all of his self control to refrain from crushing her to him, kissing her savagely, moving against her. He wills himself to do what she asked him, to teach her what he knows.  
  
Kissing her gently, he reaches his tongue out to lick her bottom lip. Again, she gasps, parting her lips. Her slightly opened mouth provides him the access he needs and he slides his tongue in. This time, her moan is louder, more passionate. His tongue probes further, exploring, teaching. Without actually knowing, he knows that Dean never kissed her like this.  
  
Dizzy, Rory moves her hands to the sides of his face. Her touch pushes him to the edge of control. Thus far, she has remained passive but now, slowly, she is beginning to explore him. Tentatively, she touches the tip of her tongue to his. His reaction is fervent and immediate. Her hands travel to his neck as she hesitantly slides her tongue in his mouth. He pulls her closer, encouraging her exploration. Tongues touch, teeth clink.  
  
Leaving his lips, she kisses his neck. His head falls backwards, granting her complete access. As she discovers him, she notices the expression on his face change as he fights to control himself. Feeling powerful, she winds her fingers in his hair and kisses his ear. He groans. Drunk on him, she recaptures his lips. Pulling her closer to him, forgetting to be gentle, he kisses her passionately. A current of passion runs through her and settles between her legs. They break apart briefly only to capture each other's lips again, hungry, wanting.  
  
When he feels her hips move slightly, he stills, pushing her back.  
  
"Rory," he whispers.  
  
Through dilated pupils, she looks at him questioningly. Groaning, he kisses her again, placing his hands on her cheeks. It takes all his willpower to pull away from her and rest his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes and moves her head onto his shoulder, this time tucking her face into his neck. Breathing in his masculine scent, she clings to him. He moves one hand inside her coat to caress her back while the other strokes her hair. Trying to calm herself, she closes her eyes.  
  
Aware that her breathing has become heavy, he shakes her slightly saying "Let's get you home."  
  
"OK," she yawns, detangling herself from him.  
  
"I'll walk you home, you know, to make sure you don't get lost."  
  
Grinning, she nods at him.  
  
When they reach her door, she turns uncertainly to him. Stepping closer, he tucks her hair behind her ear and trails his finger down the side of her face.  
  
"Jess-" she starts.  
  
"Shh," he tells her. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."  
  
His lips brush hers and then kiss her forehead. Stepping away he softly says, "Goodnight, Rory."  
  
"'Night Dodger," she whispers with a smile before slipping into the house.  
  
As he walks home he feels the lingering traces of her touch, smells her scent on his clothes. Entering the diner and climbing the stairs to the apartment, he guesses sleep will be elusive tonight. He is right.  
  
Awake, lying in his bed, he considers putting a chair against the door to keep everyone, including her, out. It's a fleeting idea, and too late for that anyways, he realizes. She is already the very breath he feels inside his lungs.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
A/N: I think one area where general relativity and quantum mechanics agree is that reviews make authors write faster (or is it just me?) 


	10. Tim O'Brien

Hi everyone! First, I want to thank you for your amazing reviews- the amount of helpful detail you leave for me just blows me away (again, as always!) You guys so completely ROCK!! Special thanks go out to everyone who emailed and offered me encouragement (particularly Becka, Elizabeth, and Julia.)  
  
This is the part where I apologize profusely for taking so long to write and post this chapter of Being Right is Overrated. Life basically got in the way of writing fan fiction and I've been super duper busy. Plus, I had the blues about the way the Rory/Jess relationship has been handled on the show. As a writer, I really strive to keep my stories in character. I've been discouraged because I think the characters have been acting 'out of character' on the show. Let me share with you the conclusion I have drawn - we, the viewers, were gypped. So, this is my attempt to provide fan fic readers with the Season 3 we deserved. I hope you like it.  
  
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"C'mon Mom!" Rory calls up the stairs as she paces in the Gilmore living room.  
  
"I'm not ready," Lorelai's disembodied voice calls down the stairs. "Go on without me."  
  
Sighing, Rory walks to the foot of the stairs.  
  
"He is not going to make you eat salad for breakfast," Rory says exasperatedly as she tries to coax her mother out of her bedroom.  
  
"Oh yeah," Lorelai counters as she comes into view, the heels of her boots clicking on the stairs. "I bet that's exactly what Amelia Earhart said."  
  
Rory is silent for a moment as she regards her mother. "Is that supposed to make sense or are you just trying to confuse me?" she questions, tilting her head to one side.  
  
"It made more sense in my head before I actually said it."  
  
"That's a little frightening," Rory grins. "Let's go. I'm hungry."  
  
"Wait. Give me one more crack at it. Say it again."  
  
"Say what again?"  
  
"The part about Luke making me eat green stuff at 8:00 in the morning."  
  
Sighing, Rory reasons, "You're worrying about nothing, mom. Luke will not make you eat salad for breakfast."  
  
"I bet that's what the Indians said when they saw the pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock."  
  
"That's not any better."  
  
"Oh no," Lorelai groans, descending the stairs and standing in the living room. "My snappy comeback generator is on the fritz. For my own safety, I don't think I should leave the house today."  
  
"Now you're just stalling," Rory grins as she walks to the coat rack.  
  
"No," Lorelai declares, urgently. "Don't you see? I'm losing my touch. Just the thought of eating salad is making me crumble. I'm turning into a blithering shadow of my formerly sharp-witted self." Motioning frantically to Rory, Lorelai urges, "Say it again."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"I just need one more chance. . ." Lorelai begs.  
  
Shrugging on her own coat, she grabs her mother's coat from the rack and hands it to her saying, "Sorry mom, the moment has passed. Let it go."  
  
Lorelai sighs petulantly and takes the coat offered to her, "This is a sign of things to come. Mark my words." Absentmindedly putting on her coat she continues, "What did Nostradamus say about the end of the word? I think this could be one of the harbingers of doom."  
  
"I don't think Nostradamus mentioned you specifically by name."  
  
"He might have! We should stay home and research it."  
  
Rory turns to face her mother and says, "I don't know for certain but I'm willing to bet that you making nonsensical comments is not the signal of impending global thermonuclear warfare or whatever it is that's going to end the world. If you woke up one morning and decided to plant a vegetable garden, donate all your shoes to the Salvation Army, and give up coffee, I'd be scared. Anything short of you voluntarily moving back in with grandma and grandpa and I think the world is safe."  
  
"Oh God. . ." Lorelai gasps, a look of horror on her face, "that would be a whole order of magnitude worse."  
  
"My point exactly."  
  
"You think the world isn't doomed?"  
  
"I wouldn't go that far," Rory muses as she slips behind Lorelai and begins nudging her towards the door. "However, if it is, I don't think it's your fault."  
  
"Maybe I should stay home just in case."  
  
"Salad is not breakfast food."  
  
"What if Luke's I.O.U. involves me cleaning out the deep fryer?" Lorelai counters as she stumbles towards the front door.  
  
"Then try not to burn yourself," Rory offers helpfully.  
  
"What if-"  
  
"Time's up," Rory interrupts as she opens the Gilmore front door and drags her mother outside. "I'm hungry and you very obviously need coffee. You're going to the diner."  
  
"Just bring coffee home for me."  
  
"That doesn't work anymore." Linking her arm with her mother's arm, Rory continues, "Luke knows when you're trying to avoid coming in the diner, which by the way, is all your fault."  
  
"How is that my fault?"  
  
"If you hadn't avoided the diner all last summer and tried to get anyone passing by to sneak you his coffee, Luke would never have developed a sixth sense for it. Now it's too late. His Lorelai-is-trying-to-sneak-coffee- out-of-my-diner radar is finely honed and fully operational."  
  
"That is so unfair," Lorelai grumbles.  
  
"That is so life."  
  
As the women engage in debate, Rory is able to maneuver Lorelai in the direction of the diner. Before Lorelai is even aware that they've been walking, the pair reach Luke's diner. Lorelai disentangles herself from Rory's grasp and takes several steps backwards.  
  
"It's such a nice day," she begins, "I think I'll just wait here on the park bench. You know, soak up some Vitamin D."  
  
"It's 40 degrees," Rory protests.  
  
"Practically tropical."  
  
"You'll freeze to death."  
  
"Which is why you should bring me coffee. It will help me stay warm."  
  
"Not a chance," Rory states flatly. "If you want coffee, you have to come inside."  
  
Sighing, Lorelai tightly closes her eyes and places her fingers on the bridge of her nose. "Coffee, salad. . . coffee, salad," she repeats as she ponders her options.  
  
"I'm going in," Rory responds.  
  
"I don't need this kind of stress so early in the morning." Lorelai moans as she begrudgingly makes her way into the diner.  
  
The women are greeted by the warmth and bustle of the diner. Making their way towards two empty stools at the counter, each glances furtively around the diner, searching for the different men so impacting their worlds. One's life has been changed suddenly and unexpectedly the way water is impacted when a rock hits its surface. The other has felt slow and gradual changes, the way the bank feels the water's ripples after the rock is dropped.  
  
"Morning," Luke's voice calls from behind the Gilmore girls.  
  
Startled, they turn and look at him.  
  
"Hey Luke," Rory sings, her eyes bright and dancing.  
  
"Luke," Lorelai greets less certainly.  
  
Walking around the counter, Luke automatically heads to the coffee pot. Picking up two mugs and setting them in front of the women, he pours them coffee and asks "What can I get for you this morning?"  
  
"I'll have French toast and mom would like a great big salad," Rory responds for both women.  
  
"Thrown to the wolves by my own flesh and blood," Lorelai says, staring at her daughter.  
  
"Ready to start working off your debt so soon?" Luke grins. "Impressive. I pulled the extra large salad bowls out of storage for you. Let me just go-"  
  
"No!" Lorelai interrupts. Staring daggers at Rory she continues, "A very reliable source assured me that salad is not breakfast food. I'll have a doughnut."  
  
"Chop it up and put it in her salad," Rory suggests to Luke.  
  
"Good idea," Luke says as he turns to walk into the kitchen.  
  
"No!" Lorelai cries. "Really. I can't take it this early in the morning. It will be like kryptonite to Spiderman."  
  
"Spiderman?" Luke asks, puzzled. Eyebrows knit together, he turns to gaze at Lorelai.  
  
"She's experiencing a bit of a power failure this morning," Rory explains.  
  
"Brain synapses all firing at different rates?" Luke grins.  
  
"Something like that," Rory answers for her mother.  
  
"It is not funny!" Lorelai interjects. "This is serious, like ZZ Top forgetting to pack their make-up when they go on tour, serious."  
  
"ZZ Top wears make-up?" Luke says, rubbing his forehead. "With those beards, how can you tell?"  
  
"Kiss!" Lorelai corrects herself, groaning. "I meant Kiss. You know, Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons. . ."  
  
"Wow," Luke breathes, staring at Lorelai as if she has suddenly sprouted two additional arms and an extra nose. "What are you, some sort of pod person?" Looking at Rory he continues, "Do you have the real Lorelai tied up somewhere?"  
  
"Dirty," Rory deadpans.  
  
"I was gonna say that!" Lorelai protests.  
  
"Huh. Apparently slow responses are another unfortunate side effect," Rory informs her mother.  
  
"I'm gonna hyperventilate," Lorelai announces.  
  
"Don't worry, mom. I'm sure this is a temporary condition."  
  
Turning to Luke, her eyes betraying her growing apprehension, Lorelai petitions, "Please. A doughnut and hold the salad. I beg of you."  
  
"You'll come back for lunch-" Luke begins.  
  
"And eat salad," Lorelai finishes for him. "Yes. Scout's honor."  
  
"OK, one doughnut and one order of French toast coming up."  
  
"Better make it two doughnuts," Lorelai calls to Luke's departing back. "This morning has 'bad day' written all over it."  
  
Looking at Rory, Lorelai continues, "I may actually need three doughnuts."  
  
"It could only help," Rory smiles.  
  
The diner is busy with activity. Rory's eyes survey the room once again and land on the curtain covering the stairs that lead to the apartment above. Across the diner, a baby in a highchair begins to cry. All eyes save one turn to investigate the source of the sudden disruption. Rory looks only at her coffee mug and then returns her gaze to the curtain.  
  
"Who are you looking for?" Lorelai asks, a hint of teasing entering her voice.  
  
"Nobody," Rory answers quickly.  
  
"His name is Nobody? And all this time I thought his name was Jess."  
  
"Mom-"  
  
"Don't tell me. Nobody's like a middle name or something, right? God, that's an awful name. Who would do that to a kid? His parents should be shot."  
  
"His middle name is not 'Nobody'."  
  
"Well, that's a relief. What is his middle name?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Ha! Then it could be 'Nobody'!"  
  
"Technically, yes. Although, I think it's highly unlikely."  
  
Lorelai cranes her neck and looks around the diner. "He is definitely not here."  
  
Luke emerges from the kitchen placing two plates in front of the Gilmores.  
  
"Thank God," Lorelai sighs, immediately distracted by her doughnuts.  
  
"And Smuckers," Luke adds.  
  
"Smuckers?" Lorelai questions.  
  
"Where do you think the jelly comes from? Jelly filling doesn't grow on trees."  
  
"You make your own doughnuts?"  
  
"Yeah. The deep fryer is not just for cooking French fries."  
  
Lorelai suddenly sits up straight. Eyes wide, she looks at Rory and whispers, "The deep fryer!"  
  
Turning to Luke she quickly stammers, "I don't know anything about cleaning deep fryers."  
  
Luke regards Lorelai thoughtfully before turning to Rory and asking "How long is she going to be like this?"  
  
"It's hard to tell," Rory considers.  
  
As Luke turns to re-enter the kitchen, Lorelai calls out, mouth filled with doughnut, "Hey Luke!"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Where's Jess? We haven't seen him this morning."  
  
Rory shoots her mother a warning glance, which Lorelai ignores.  
  
"He worked double shifts for me last week so I gave him the morning off."  
  
"Ah. Look who's an old softie."  
  
"Eat your doughnuts," Luke grumbles as he returns to the kitchen.  
  
"It looks like 'Nobody' will not be bursting through that curtain anytime soon."  
  
"I guess not," Rory mumbles as she cuts into her French toast.  
  
Time slips quietly by as the two women eat in companionable silence, each lost in thought.  
  
Wiping her face with her napkin, Rory pushes her plate away and turns to her mother.  
  
"Is it OK if I-" Rory begins.  
  
"Tell him 'hi' for me," Lorelai smiles.  
  
Jumping off her stool she beams, "Thanks mom!"  
  
Knowing exactly where to find him, Rory's legs take her to the bridge. As it comes into view, she sees Jess, sitting in what she has come to think of as his spot. There is a book in his hand but it rests against his leg, temporarily ignored. He leans slightly back. Eyes closed, his face tilts towards the sun, soaking up the gentle early November rays. Rory pauses briefly to stare.  
  
'God, he's beautiful,' she thinks.  
  
Opening his eyes and turning his gaze directly towards her, a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Caught, Rory blushes slightly and returns his grin. Slowly, she walks to the bridge and sits down next to him. Saying nothing, he looks at her out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"We kissed," she says abruptly.  
  
"Yeah," he responds, his grin broadening. "I picked up on that too."  
  
"I mean. . . " she stammers, her blush growing a shade more vivid. "What I meant was. . . hi."  
  
"Hi."  
  
Jess looks at Rory expectantly, waiting.  
  
"So. . . Um. . . Hi," she says again.  
  
Laughing slightly, Jess whispers, "Hi."  
  
Rory feels her pulse race. In an attempt to compose herself, she looks across the water, gazing at the opposite bank. Jess follows her lead and looks across the water as well.  
  
Gaining confidence, Rory looks back at Jess. Catching his eye, she looks down briefly. Out of nervousness, she tucks her hair behind her ear before looking directly in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows in a questioning gesture.  
  
"I wanted to talk to you about last night," she begins.  
  
"So talk," he encourages.  
  
"Well," she begins hesitantly, "it was just really unexpected. I didn't meant to-"  
  
"Oh God Rory," Jess groans, interrupting her. "Don't."  
  
"Don't what?" she questions.  
  
"Don't tell me you didn't mean to kiss me. Don't tell me you didn't mean for any of it to happen and that you're sorry and you just want to be my friend."  
  
"I wasn't going to say that."  
  
"Don't say you regret it," he continues as if she has not spoken.  
  
"Jess-"  
  
"And that you're not over Dean and you don't want to lead me on or hurt me. I don't know what I'd do if-"  
  
"Stop!" she commands.  
  
Silenced and vulnerable, Jess exhales deeply. When he finally looks at her, she sees in his eyes a hurt lost child.  
  
"That's exactly what I didn't mean to do," she sighs.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Put that look on your face. That's the same look you had last night when I told you I wanted to know what you know.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Last night," Rory flounders, gesturing her hands. "That look. Your past. All of it."  
  
Shaking his head dismissively, Jess asserts, "You're blowing that out of proportion. I'm fine with my past. It's over."  
  
"It's not over."  
  
"It is over," he states firmly. "I've moved on."  
  
"No," she says softly. "You carry it with you."  
  
"I don't think you're qualified to psychoanalyze me," Jess says, irritation rising. He shifts uncomfortably and turns his gaze back across the water.  
  
"It's just like Tim O'Brien said."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Did you read The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien?"  
  
"You're comparing me to a Vietnam vet?"  
  
"It just reminds me of you."  
  
"This conversation is getting ridiculous."  
  
"No, think about it. They carried mosquito netting, guns, ammo, malaria tablets, M&Ms, comic books, old love letters, good luck charms, water, radios, first aid, kool aid packets. . ."  
  
"Now I see the connection," Jess deadpans, interrupting Rory's list. "I never go anywhere without my mosquito netting and kool aid."  
  
"No, you never go anywhere without a book," she corrects, gesturing to the book in his hand. "Tim O'Brien goes into a lot of detail about the physical things the soldiers in Vietnam carried and how much each weighed."  
  
Jess is silent as he listens to Rory.  
  
She continues with "but they also carried the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing - O'Brien asserts that the intangibles have their own mass and specific gravity. The mass and gravity combine to give them a tangible weight just like the physical burdens."  
  
"Rory-"  
  
"He says they carried the common secret of cowardice barely restrained, the instinct to run or freeze or hide, and that those secret burdens were the heaviest of all because they couldn't be put down. They carried their reputations, their endurance, their memories of friends dying and sinking into the mud. Nightmare scenes too horrific to be described, too terrible to be understood."  
  
"What do you want from me, Rory?" Jess whispers, staring intently into her eyes.  
  
"I want you to let me in a little."  
  
"You don't know what you're asking. What I carry isn't pretty."  
  
She knows he carries his missing father like an amputated limb. Her heart breaks as she wonders what other unimaginable scars hide just beneath the surface of his James Dean façade.  
  
"If you're going to be my boyfriend, you're going to have to let me know you."  
  
"Am I going to be your boyfriend?" he asks, tilting his head to one side studying her.  
  
"Oh, I didn't mean. . . I'm not implying. . . just because we kissed doesn't mean. . . So, don't think that you have to. . ." Stopping herself, Rory returns Jess's gaze. Fighting her natural impulse to run, she says, "Yes. If you want to be."  
  
"I do," Jess breathes, smiling slightly.  
  
"Good," Rory smiles.  
  
"Aren't you scared you'll turn out like the Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong? You might go native."  
  
"That's one of my favorite chapters in the book!" Rory grins. "But, I don't think that's going to happen,"  
  
"I don't know," Jess says seriously. "The girl jumped out of her culottes and into camouflage. Maybe diving into my past will have the same effect on you. Suck you under. Taint you. Drown you."  
  
"There's no chance of me turning out like the Sweetheart in the story. First of all, I wouldn't be caught dead in culottes. Second, I'm not about to go more than two days without washing my hair, not even for you," Rory teases.  
  
"A true girly-girl," Jess says reaching his hand to her face. He trails a finger along her jaw.  
  
Rory shivers. Taking his hand from her face, she pulls it into her lap. Jess gives her a look that speaks of his doubt and fear. She hopes the look she gives in return says 'you can trust me.'  
  
"So," she says gently, "tell me one thing you carry."  
  
Scowling, Jess looks away.  
  
"I can't think of anything," he says.  
  
"Try starting with a tangible thing," she encourages, tightening her grasp on his hand. "It might be easier."  
  
"I can't do this."  
  
"Jess. . ." she whispers.  
  
He looks at their fingers entwined and mumbles, "You'll laugh."  
  
"No, I won't."  
  
When Jess looks at her doubtfully, Rory adds, "I promise."  
  
He sighs. Turning his body to face her, the words begin tumbling out, slowly at first but then picking up speed.  
  
"My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Jackson, wrote a note to my mother telling her that I was the most advanced reader in the class. She said I had limitless potential, her words not mine," he clarifies, "and that I should be placed in AP classes."  
  
"That's great!"  
  
"Yeah, my mom read the letter, ruffled my hair, and then threw the note in the garbage."  
  
"Oh Jess," Rory breathes, her eyes misting.  
  
"I pulled the note out of the trash and saved it. I still have it. I even brought it with me when I came to Luke's."  
  
Eyes watery, Rory looks at Jess and smiles. "I like this Mrs. Jackson."  
  
"Yeah, well. . ." he mumbles looking away, his voice trailing off.  
  
Rory touches her forehead to Jess's shoulder and then lifts her face to brush a soft kiss across his cheek. Standing she offers him her hand.  
  
"C'mon," she says.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"The bookstore. I'm getting cold."  
  
Standing, he takes her hand. As they walk off the bridge he pauses.  
  
"Rory," he says.  
  
"Hmm?" she answers turning to face him.  
  
"You need to know. . . I'm not going to be a boyfriend the way Dean was."  
  
Grinning widely, Rory proclaims, "I'm counting on that!"  
  
Jess simply stares at Rory, his mind trying, and failing, to formulate a rational response.  
  
"Oh, I almost forgot," Rory continues, her eyes becoming more serious. "The most important thing the soldiers in O'Brien's book carried was. . . each other."  
  
Jess surveys Rory's slender shoulders and wonders if they're strong enough to share his burden. 'It's heavier than she knows,' he thinks. Looking back at her, Jess feels something inside of him start to break. A crack forms in the hard protective shell he has so carefully crafted over the years. It hurts, this new chink in his armor, this fresh tear in his chain metal. Steeling himself, he pushes through the pain and fear and kisses her anyway.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
"Mom," Rory calls as she enters the Gilmore house.  
  
"In here," Lorelai answers from the kitchen.  
  
"I think we need to take a more pro-active approach."  
  
"I agree!" Lorelai states without hesitation. "To what exactly?"  
  
"To your snappy comeback power outage."  
  
"Oh goody! What are we going to do?"  
  
"I just rented some of the worst movies of all time. I thought we could watch them together to stimulate your mocking response."  
  
"Ooh," Lorelai trills, jumping up from the table. "I'll make popcorn!"  
  
"Good idea."  
  
"So?"  
  
Confused, Rory asks, "So what?"  
  
"So. . . how did it go with Jess? You did see him when you left the diner, didn't you?"  
  
"I did," Rory blushes. "It went well."  
  
"Yeah. . ." Lorelai begins, drawing the word out. "That is not nearly enough detail that you're giving me there. I hope you don't think my mental lapse today applies to my mothering skills because those are all up and running."  
  
"I never doubted it," Rory grins.  
  
"Out with it," Lorelai commands turning to face her daughter. "Spill."  
  
"I promise I'll fill you in on all the details but, I just need to sort through the whole thing in my head for a while first."  
  
"Oh, I hate that," Lorelai whines.  
  
"Patience is a virtue."  
  
"You'll tell me later?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"OK," Lorelai says. Pausing briefly, she continues, "How about now?"  
  
"This is not 'later' enough."  
  
"OK, I understand." Lorelai pauses again, "How about now?"  
  
"Mom," Rory sighs.  
  
"OK, OK, OK," Lorelai concedes holding up her hands. "What'd you get?"  
  
"Well," Rory hesitates, "I got a kiss."  
  
"Oh, we are SO going to talk about Jess later. However, what I meant was, what movies did you get?"  
  
"Oh," Rory replies laughing. "I got Starcrash-"  
  
"The entertainment value of watching David Hasselhoff battle a stop motion robot with a light-saber should go without saying."  
  
"Vampire Men of the Lost Planet-"  
  
"The crew of a broken spaceship manages an emergency landing on the set of a Filipino caveman film that has nothing to do with vampires," Lorelai offers excitedly.  
  
"The Thing with Two Heads-"  
  
"The heads of Rosey Grier and Ray Milland on the same body? Who could ever get tired of that?"  
  
". . .and Ishtar," Rory finishes.  
  
"A movie so bad that an entire theatre of movie goers has been known to spontaneously burst out it hives!" Lorelai dances. "I feel my mocking juices revving up already! You are my all time favorite daughter!"  
  
"You're welcome," Rory says.  
  
As the two women trek to their living room, Rory cautions, "Don't fill up on popcorn. You still have to go to Luke's later and eat salad."  
  
"That's the only salad comment you're allowed to make for the rest of the day," Lorelai commands while sliding in the first video.  
  
Hopping back to the couch, she flops next to Rory. The two women snuggle together under an afghan, the bowl of popcorn balanced on their legs. Lorelai glances at her daughter, a slightly worried expression crossing her features.  
  
"About Jess," Lorelai begins cautiously.  
  
"Yeah?" Rory questions, beaming at her mother.  
  
Seeing the look of utter happiness radiating from her daughter, Lorelai smiles and says, "Nevermind."  
  
Lorelai kisses the top of Rory's head as the movie's opening credits roll.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
Well, I hope that was worth the wait. I already have parts of the next chapter developed so, hopefully, it won't take so long to post. I'd love to hear what you think in a review. Thanks! 


	11. Kurt Vonnegut

"Ahem," kimlockt says sheepishly looking at her feet, "what was that I said? This chapter wouldn't take long to materialize?" If I thought I could swallow paper without getting physically sick, I'd print out that sentence and literally eat my words.  
  
I'm sorry it has taken me ages to update Being Right is Overrated, but in my own defense, this has been a ridiculous summer. Without going into too many details, basically I blinked and it was August. Please rest assured that this story was never abandoned.  
  
Thanks to all of you for your reviews (I consider each a gift), emails, and patience with me as I ease back in the writing game.  
  
Extra special thanks for Beth for the expert beta reading. You are awesome!!  
  
.  
  
.  
  
Warning: This chapter is rated "R" for sexual references and situations.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
His eyes open. Groaning in protest against the arrival of morning ('always too damn early', he thinks), he rolls over. His arm reaches towards the nightstand to push aside a stack of books blocking his view of the alarm clock as he marvels yet again that his legs aren't trapped in the bed sheets.  
  
He used to be a fitful sleeper. Tossing and turning, he was never quite comfortable enough to drift into authoritative unconsciousness. Not to mention that every little thing that went bump in the night caused his eyelids to fly open, made his body tense and alert. He used to believe that if he could just get comfortable enough, just find the magic sleeping position, he would fall softly, gently asleep. This belief prompted endless nighttime maneuverings and half conscious thrashings that left his legs, and occasionally an arm, imprisoned and immobilized in an unforgiving tangle of sheets. Sometimes, usually when the room was too warm, he managed to twist the bottom fitted sheet loose as well, only to wake feeling hung over and sweaty. That's all changed lately.  
  
He's sleeping peacefully, deeper. Actually waking up - imagine this - feeling rested. Ironically, falling asleep has almost been more difficult as his mind refuses to surrender the day. It's a benign side effect though, one he accepts simply and without irony. Some nights he stares contentedly at the ceiling watching the shadows play, allowing himself the luxury of feeling, for once, lucky. On days like today, he even wakes up before the alarm sounds. Granted, it's only three or four minutes before the alarm is set to go off, but waking naturally is still waking naturally and it's unprecedented in the world of Jess Mariano.  
  
Denying the alarm its single pleasure of shattering his silence with an angry soulless buzz, he turns it off and rolls onto his back. A yawn escapes him as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and suppresses a smile. The predawn blue light filtering in the window finds him in a state of arousal. Again. He shouldn't be surprised by this and, truthfully, he isn't. Waking erect has been the norm lately and he's come to expect it.  
  
'It's the dreams,' he thinks to himself as he lets his arms fall to his chest and shuts his eyes, remembering. Struggling to piece together the nebulous thoughts floating through his semi-consciousness, small snatches come back to him. The thread of coherency between the jumbled images eludes him but that doesn't stop him from trying to assemble the fragments in some logical, orderly fashion.  
  
It's Rory, always Rory. He can't fully see her, can't quite make out her features, but there's no doubt it's her. It's her hair he feels enveloping him as her head dips, her weight he feels on top of him, her lips sliding across his chest like honey, her breath he hears in his ears, her hands he feels on his body, exploring, touching. If he could fully remember his dreams, he doubts he'd change much about them. When he closes his eyes at night, Rory is completely and utterly his in a way she isn't in the daylight. 'At least not yet,' he thinks, allowing the suppressed smile to surface.  
  
Stretching, he tries to decide whether he should lie there until his heightened state subsides a little or whether he should just take care of it himself in the shower. Listening to the darkness, he hears no sound of Luke and guesses that he's already downstairs in the diner. Standing to make his way to the bathroom, he concludes that it's a good thing the apartment is empty. The current state of his boxers notwithstanding, the shock of seeing Jess with a full-fledged grin on his face would probably be too much for his uncle.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
"I know," Lorelai's voice calls from the living room where she is determinably removing cushions from the couch, "but that was before he tried to poison me."  
  
Rory's muffled voice attempts to shout a reply overtop of the decidedly un- Gilmore like noise of the garbage disposal but her words are lost in the resulting whir. The only one Lorelai can partially make out are "not" and a word that sounds vaguely like "syringe."  
  
"Why would Luke need a syringe?" Lorelai asks entering the kitchen, pulling on her glove that is no longer lost in the sofa.  
  
"What?" Rory asks, turning off the disposal.  
  
"Honey," Lorelai begins, approaching Rory and looking into the sink with a mix of curiosity and wonder, "When did we get a garbage disposal?"  
  
"It came with the house."  
  
"You're kidding me! And it works?"  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"Ooh," Lorelai trills, clapping her hands, "I want to use it. Find something for me to dispose."  
  
Opening the refrigerator, Rory hands her mother a carton of leftover takeout Chinese food. "Knowing us, this has to be bad."  
  
"Nope," the elder Gilmore replies, handing the carton back, "that was Tuesday's dinner. It has at least another two days of shelf life left. What else is in there?"  
  
"Bottled water, ketchup, and grape jelly," Rory lists, pulling her head out of the fridge and turning to her mother.  
  
"Daggone," Lorelai pouts, "you get to have all the fun."  
  
"Well," Rory muses, "we could let the Chinese food go bad and then you can grind it up in the disposal."  
  
"Excellent idea!" Lorelai brightens. "Promise me you won't get hungry and eat it."  
  
"If I get hungry, I'll eat the ketchup instead."  
  
"That's my girl," Lorelai grins to Rory's back as she darts into her room to retrieve her heavy-laden book bag.  
  
The women walk into the foyer where the couch, its cushions in disarray, sits visible guarding the deserted but cluttered living room. Dropping her book bag, Rory reaches for her coat.  
  
"One day," Lorelai begins, staring at Rory's book bag, "that backpack is going to crash right through the floor."  
  
"Probably," Rory agrees.  
  
Coats on, the two women exit the house and walk towards Luke's Diner. The air is crisp and smells like winter. A few tenacious leaves cling stubbornly to stark tree branches, their brethren having been blown away in colorful gusts of orange, red, and yellow. Their breath, weeks earlier only marginally visible, now appears in mists of translucent white as they walk. Lorelai glances at the sidewalk and notices their shadows which, given the angle of the low-lying December sun, appear to be holding hands.  
  
"Oh," Lorelai starts, "I remember what I wanted to ask you. Do you think Luke will still give me coffee after I have him arrested?"  
  
"Arrested for what?" Rory questions, brows knit together in a scowl as the corners of her mouth involuntarily inch upwards.  
  
"Attempted poisoning. I knew you weren't paying attention to me earlier!"  
  
"You weren't poisoned," Rory grins.  
  
"But I could have been."  
  
"It's not like salads are full of strychnine."  
  
"I'm not talking about the average person's digestive system, I'm talking about my digestive system. I don't think I have the right enzymes to digest vegetables, especially green ones. He totally could have killed me."  
  
"Yet, here you stand, very much alive," Rory states, gesturing to her mother. As Lorelai opens her mouth to contradict her, she continues, "and, no."  
  
"No what?"  
  
"No, I don't think he'd give you coffee if you had him arrested."  
  
"Damn," Lorelai mutters. "That's what I thought too."  
  
The two women enter Luke's as the smell of freshly brewed coffee wraps seductively around them in welcome. They sit at an open table near the window, and almost instantly, Luke materializes with a steaming pot of coffee and two mugs.  
  
"I own a garbage disposal," Lorelai tells him happily.  
  
"You should be very proud," he replies before walking behind the counter.  
  
Rory's eyes follow Luke. He ducks down to grab another coffee mug from under the counter to reveal Jess's previously hidden jean-clad form. Jess leans back on the far counter next to the coffee machine, his hands lightly gripping the edge of the countertop behind him. He regards Rory silently, thoughtfully. Instinctively, her eyes seek out the crystal-brown depths of his and, upon connection, she feels the sensation of being covered in a warm blanket.  
  
"I'll be right back," she mumbles to her mother as she stands to cross the restaurant.  
  
Seeing her approach, Jess moves forward with athletic grace to rest his elbows on the front counter. As she nears him, her hands snake across the counter's surface to entwine with his. Fingers touch fingers. Leaning towards her, Jess brushes a soft kiss on her lips. Rory feels the unmistakable sensation of the scrape of his lower teeth on her bottom lip. Involuntarily, she draws a sharp soft breath as her eyes close. He pulls back and tucks loose strands of her hair behind an ear, his fingers lingering momentarily on her earlobe and jaw.  
  
"Morning," he says quietly.  
  
"Hey," she greets in return. Pausing to study him she continues, "You look like you're in a good mood."  
  
"Huh," Jess muses smiling softly, as his eyes scan her face.  
  
He leans forward to say something imperceptible in her ear, which makes her smile. From her vantage point across the diner, Lorelai watches the unfolding interaction and frowns.  
  
"You're probably hungry," Luke says.  
  
Looking up, Lorelai regards Luke for a moment before raising her eyebrows. "Why, you must have ESP," she responds sarcastically.  
  
"ESPN," he corrects, refilling her coffee.  
  
"I want pancakes," she states firmly. "Medium rare. With a side order of more pancakes please."  
  
"Got it," Luke responds pulling a pad from his back pocket to write her order down. Without glancing at her he says "And Rory wants?"  
  
"Jess," she answers, turning her attention back to the pair.  
  
Luke looks up sharply, eyebrows knit together. Following Lorelai's gaze, he studies his nephew and Rory. They're engaged in soft, animated conversation, their heads bent together, hands touching. Jess has apparently gotten Rory another cup of coffee. Between contended sips, she alternately listens and talks to him, her eyes on his face. Their world seems private and wholly their own.  
  
Straightening his spine, Luke scratches his chin. A mild "hmm" is the only comment he offers.  
  
Giving him her best look of disbelief, Lorelai stares at him. Luke shrugs.  
  
"He's been doing better lately," he says as if it explains everything.  
  
Lorelai's eyes narrow and she continues studying Luke's face. "Define better," she commands.  
  
"You know," Luke begins, gesturing with his hands. "He's been getting up early, helping me down here without me having to ask him 50 times. I hardly ever have to threaten him anymore and yesterday, he almost said a full sentence to me."  
  
"He's a regular Wally Cleaver," Lorelai grumbles, more annoyance that she wants leeching into her voice.  
  
"Not quite," Luke responds. "He's still a pain in the ass. It's just. . ." he pauses as he searches for the right words before giving up and exhaling, "he's, less so lately."  
  
Lorelai grimaces.  
  
"He likes Rory," Luke states flatly.  
  
Lorelai looks up at him, worry etched into all her features. Locking eyes with her, Luke nods reassuringly and mutters, "Really. He does. She makes him. . ."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't know," he sighs shaking his head. Looking away from Lorelai towards the teenagers, he concludes, "If it will make you feel better, I'll keep an eye on them when they're here."  
  
Lorelai manages a feeble smile, which Luke accepts, doing his best (but failing, he's sure) to look reassuring. Warming her coffee again, he walks back to the kitchen to make her pancakes.  
  
As Luke passes Jess, small snippets of their conversation become audible.  
  
"Me?" Rory questions. "At least I've read Cat's Cradle."  
  
"Says the woman who hasn't read Slaughterhouse Five," Jess retorts.  
  
"That's the one with Billy Pilgrim?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"It's on my list of books to read."  
  
"Here, I'll save you the trouble. War is bad," he pauses with a glint in his eyes. "There. Now, you can skip right to Breakfast of Champions."  
  
"C'mon," she laughs. "There must be more to it than that."  
  
"There's no doubt it's an anti-war novel but it's a strange one. A lot of black humor. A lot of debate about predestination versus free-will."  
  
"I still want to read it," Rory says, looking at their laced fingers on the countertop.  
  
"You should," Jess encourages. "Breakfast of Champions is his best, though."  
  
"Says the man who hasn't read Cat's Cradle."  
  
"Rory," Lorelai's voice interrupts. She is standing next to Rory at the counter eyeing the pair warily. Rory immediately lets go of Jess's hands and turns to look at her mother. Jess pushes away from the counter and waits.  
  
"You're going to miss your bus," Lorelai informs her daughter.  
  
"Oh," Rory comments, looking at her watch to confirm the veracity of this statement. Pulling her coat on, she says 'goodbye' to Jess and Lorelai. Luke has put a donut in a carryout bag for her and she thanks him gratefully. Making her way towards the diner's door, she suddenly stops and spins around.  
  
"Hey," she exclaims looking at Jess, who smirks to cover his pleasure at being singled out for her continued attention. "About Cat's Cradle-"  
  
"I'll read it today," he finishes for her.  
  
She flashes him a dazzling smile, which leaves him feeling embraced. Then she is gone.  
  
Lorelai watches, wishing the smile had been for her and hating the cold feeling in her stomach that she knows is jealousy. Her eyes slide across the diner and land on Jess.  
  
Jess knows she's watching him, can feel the gravity of her intense stare. Lorelai is worried. He knows this too. He turns and walks into the kitchen without acknowledging her unspoken question. 'Are you going to hurt my daughter?' her eyes would have asked had he permitted it. It's a question he can't afford. The prospect of Lorelai reading anything other than a firm 'no' in his eyes is too risky. . . .and too possible.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
Rory sits on her bed absentmindedly playing with a highlighter pen. Her Chilton uniform is draped over the back of a chair and she wears a velour sweat suit for comfort. Focused on the textbook in her lap, notebooks, assorted papers and other open textbooks litter her bed. Without prelude, her studying is interrupted by the phone.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hey," he says, his voice sounding slightly scratchy, like liquid sand.  
  
"Jess," she smiles, putting the highlighter down and leaning back into her pillows.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Homework."  
  
"Huh," he comments, pausing. "You didn't come in for dinner."  
  
"Yeah, I planned to but Mom picked up a pizza," she explains. "We can't eat the Chinese food."  
  
"Right," he answers, not bothering to ask for clarification.  
  
"We ate early because Mom has that Inn thing tonight with Sookie."  
  
"Inn thing?"  
  
"Another 'How to run your own Inn' seminar. Most of them are wastes of time, at least according to Mom, but this one has something to do with financial planning and advertising. She and Sookie thought it might actually be worthwhile."  
  
"So, you're by yourself tonight."  
  
"Yeah, I'm by myself tonight," she responds grinning, guessing where the conversation is heading.  
  
"Do you think that's safe?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Being at home alone."  
  
"Well, there was that pack of rabid wolves roaming the streets, but I thought I'd, you know," she pauses, teasing him, "stay off the porch."  
  
"I don't know. I heard they could pick locks."  
  
"Wow. Those are really smart wolves."  
  
"Tell me about it. Maybe I should come over. Make sure they don't get in your house."  
  
Rory rolls onto her stomach, smiling broadly. "Maybe you should."  
  
"OK."  
  
"OK," she repeats.  
  
"So, I'll come over."  
  
"OK," she breathes.  
  
She spends the few minutes it takes him to walk from the diner to her house putting away her homework and gathering her scattered papers. Just as she is finishing, she hears him knock.  
  
Opening the door, Rory finds Jess smiling shyly on the porch.  
  
"If it isn't the Big Bad Wolf himself," she says in greeting,  
  
Jess laughs and stares at his feet. Looking up at her through a curtain of thick dark lashes, he gives her his very best 'you can trust me' look.  
  
"Put that away," she tells him opening the door so he can enter. "I know that look. I'm immune to it now."  
  
"Really?" he replies, a challenge tinting the edges of his voice. Without warning, he grabs her wrist, pulls her to him powerfully and kisses her. Her free hand lands unceremoniously on his chest as his arm encircles her waist. Caught off guard, Rory is slow to react. Mind spinning, she feels his tongue enter her mouth and leans against him for support.  
  
It's a visceral, physical sensation, being kissed by him. Her bones melt and she feels shaken, dizzy. Every damn time! It would almost be annoying if it weren't so amazing, so addictive. She wants to match him move for move, make him weak like he makes her. So far in their relationship, all she's been able to do is hold on for dear life. Dear sanity is probably more like it. She's beginning to think he does it on purpose. He tortures her with his lips and she sinks like a stone.  
  
Slowly, the haze lifts. She comprehends that if she's constantly drowning, constantly falling under his spell, she can't make him lose control. With astonishing clarity, she realizes that's exactly what she wants to do. She's being played, she knows this now, but it's so expertly done, she decides she almost doesn't mind. Almost.  
  
Moving her hand from his chest to his shoulder to steady herself, she feels his muscles tense beneath her touch. Understanding dawning, she is stunned to discover that he is as affected by her touch as she is by his. Deciding to - no needing to - assert some control over him, she cups his cheek with her hand and captures his lower lip between her teeth. When he stills, she slowly, tantalizingly teases his mouth with her tongue. At once, they both realize that she is learning. Immediately, he releases her captured wrist and with both hands pulls her closer to him. In a rush of pure desire, he matches her body to his. Summoning more bravado than she actually feels, her newly freed hand tugs his t-shirt out of his jeans and slips underneath it.  
  
"Rory-" he breathes against her mouth.  
  
Kissing him deeper, she trails her hand along his stomach muscles, fingering the skin just above the waist of his pants. They are slung low on his hips and she feels the top of his boxers under her searching fingers. A small moan, half desire and half protest, erupts from the back of his throat. Without thinking, she tucks a finger underneath the elastic band of his boxers and pulls her hand across his stomach again. Abruptly, she is pushed away.  
  
Startled, she looks at him. His hands grip her biceps tightly. His pupils are dilated, his eyes, dangerous. They stand, eyes locked, for several heartbeats. In this frozen moment, they could be statues but for the labored rise and fall of their chests. For the first time, Rory recognizes the full potential of her power and the possibility - mildly frightening to them both - that she could seduce him if she tried hard enough. Rory smiles, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. Groaning, Jess pulls her back into his arms and rests his forehead against hers.  
  
"Rory Gilmore," he whispers, closing his eyes, "the things you do to me."  
  
"Like what?" she asks, interested.  
  
"Make me read Kurt Vonnegut novels for one," he answers, releasing her and walking into the living room.  
  
"What did you think of Cat's Cradle?" she asks, following him.  
  
Eyeing the jumbled couch cushions, he says, "I think the wolves may have gotten here before me after all."  
  
Helping him slide the cushions back in their proper places, she responds, "No wolves. Just Mom."  
  
"Same difference," he mutters under his breath.  
  
"So, Cat's Cradle?" she prompts.  
  
He sits on the couch and says, "There is no cat. There is no cradle."  
  
Deciding that a little distance between them would be a good thing right now, she plops on the other end of the sofa. Tilting her head to one side, she says, "Wait. Did you finish it already?"  
  
Jess gives her a look that tells her she should know better than to ask questions like that.  
  
"Impressive," she smiles.  
  
"I've decided to convert to Bokononism," he announces.  
  
"Jess Mariano finds religion? Next you'll tell me you have some Ice-9 in your back pocket."  
  
"A religion that admits it's based entirely on lies makes perfect sense to me," he grins, reaching across the sofa to pull her feet into his lap.  
  
Rory watches him pull off her socks and giggles, "What are you doing?"  
  
"If I'm going to be a Bokononist, I should start paying more attention to your feet, don't you think?"  
  
"I suppose," she sighs as Jess's strong hands begin massaging her feet. Settling herself back into the sofa, she asks, "Do you think humans need to struggle to be happy?"  
  
Kneading her feet between his palms, Jess grows thoughtful. "I don't know. There is something basically human about challenging authority and overcoming adversity."  
  
"But," she counters, "don't you think that the citizens of Vonnegut's San Lorenzo would have been better served by a government that actually tried to improve their situation than by one that outlawed their made-up religion so they'd have something to rebel against? It seems a huge distraction from the real issues."  
  
"Sounds like government as usual to me."  
  
"Oh, c'mon!"  
  
"I'm serious. What do you think politics are?"  
  
"An attempt by the people to unite to improve their lot in life," she answers mildly, enjoying her impromptu foot massage.  
  
"How about a big massive effort to divide and distract the people from the important issues so that nothing ever really changes?"  
  
"Tsk, tsk," she smiles at him, clicking her tongue. "I bet such a cynical outlook is against the laws of Bokonon."  
  
"Not at all," he smirks. "But then again, my people have always been misunderstood by outsiders."  
  
Relaxing fully into the sofa, she sighs, "I think you'd make a good Bokononist. That feels really nice."  
  
He smiles as his hands continue to rub her feet. She shuts her eyes and moves her arms above her head, stretching like a cat. Jess watches as a strip of skin on her midriff becomes deliciously visible. It's a part of her body he's never seen before and his eyes drink it in. He wants to look away but finds he can't. The gentle expansion and contraction of her flat stomach as she breathes is mesmerizing.  
  
Based on her performance in the foyer, he wonders briefly if she's giving him a glimpse of this unexplored part of herself on purpose. Truthfully, he knows she isn't. Although he tries hard not to, his mind imagines what her skin there tastes like. Touching her feet suddenly isn't enough anymore.  
  
Rory stares at his face. She's not sure what he finds so fascinating about her stomach but she knows things have shifted. His face is now deadly serious. Something flutters inside her, a small flicker, a faint yearning. This is how it happens, she thinks as she watches him want her. This is how people lose control.  
  
Cursing himself for his weakness, he wills himself to look at her face. He is not entirely surprised to find her studying him. He realizes that she knows he wants to touch her. When she doesn't look away, he understands that permission has been granted.  
  
Releasing her feet, he slowly moves across the couch. His hands alight on the bottom of her sweat jacket. He looks at her face one last time to be sure this is OK. Her eyes reflect only mild curiosity and simple need. He returns his attention to her abdomen and tenderly pushes her jacket up her torso, stopping just below her breasts.  
  
Slowly, carefully, he splays one hand on the exposed flesh. She shivers. His fingers trace her ribs as if he is counting each one. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. He should stop and discuss Vonnegut or some other safe subject but he can't. His index finger traces an arrow down the center of her body and circles her navel. Unable to resist, his tongue follows the same route. She shudders again.  
  
Shifting so that his body is positioned directly above her legs, he lowers his head and kisses her stomach. His lips and hands caress and explore this uncharted territory, moving in tandem, touching then tasting. Leisurely with infinite patience, he learns about her, watches her reactions. Rory bites her lip to keep from crying out.  
  
Jess finds the pulse in her stomach and longs to trace its route through the rest of her body. Instead, he tips his head, and sucks the tender skin beside her hipbone as his thumbs hook under the waistband of her sweatpants. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he eases them down an inch. Unable to keep still, Rory arches slightly beneath him.  
  
Registering her response, Jess lifts his eyes to look at her face. She looks beautiful.  
  
He doesn't want to frighten her, or push her because he knows she isn't ready for more than this. He just wants to make her feel. Make her feel him. His eyes hungrily caress the flesh formerly hidden by her sweat pants. He leans over her to draw teasing circles on this sensitive skin with his tongue.  
  
Despite her efforts at control, Rory feels herself slipping completely under his spell. Wanting to touch him, she moves her hands to his head and runs her fingers through his dark curls. Sighing, Jess finds there isn't anything more satisfying than what he is doing to her.  
  
A car door shuts outside. The sound registers vaguely with Jess as he momentarily pauses. Rory opens her eyes to look at him.  
  
"Someone's coming," he mutters.  
  
He reaches up and pulls her jacket down, mourning the loss of the sight of her perfect skin.  
  
Rory makes a small sound of protest. "I don't hear anything," she says, reaching for him, greedy for his touch.  
  
Jess places a quick kiss on her lips and pulls her into a seated position.  
  
"Lorelai's home," he warns.  
  
He has just enough time to return to his own side of the couch before the door opens and the elder Gilmore walks inside.  
  
"Rory?" she calls, taking off her jacket in the foyer.  
  
"Here," Rory answers.  
  
Lorelai looks into the living room and spies Jess. He's as far from Rory as he could possibly be and still be on the same sofa with her. Noting his rumpled appearance, she greets, "Hi Jess."  
  
"Hey," he greets in return, running a hand through his hair. Standing he says, "I was just leaving."  
  
"Of course you were," Lorelai responds, regarding him with a knowing expression on her face.  
  
Doing her best to calm her wild heart, pounding so loud she's certain Lorelai can hear it, Rory says, "I'll walk you to the door." She stands on spaghetti legs. This sudden interruption makes no sense to her and tears of confused disappointment spring to her eyes. She blinks them away and follows Jess.  
  
Lorelai waits for her in the living room. It seems to her that lately she's constantly observing Rory from a distance. A pang of loneliness slices through her and she wonders if this is a sad harbinger of what lies ahead. She sees Jess places his hands on Rory's hips before brushing a chaste kiss against her mouth. Inaudible words pass between them before Rory closes the door and walks back into the house alone.  
  
Edging closer to her bedroom, Rory waves at her mother, "Night Mom."  
  
"Not so fast," Lorelai says, making a concerted effort to keep her voice light and normal.  
  
Rory freezes. Folding her arms across her stomach, she nervously looks at her feet.  
  
"Time for a little chat," Lorelai states, patting the sofa cushion next to her.  
  
Rory begrudgingly enters the living room and sits next to Lorelai. The two are momentarily silent as they gather their thoughts.  
  
At length, Lorelai begins, "I'm really trying hard to hold up my end of our bargain."  
  
Rory casts a sidelong glance at her mother as she waits for her to continue.  
  
"For the record, Jess is not my favorite kid but I know he's your boyfriend, and I know you like him and I know I promised to give him a chance so. . . I'm giving him a chance."  
  
"I know," Rory says.  
  
"But," Lorelai continues, "at the risk of losing my status as the world's coolest Mom, I need to tell you that I'm concerned."  
  
"Everything is OK, Mom."  
  
"Honey, I respect your privacy and have faith in your decisions but I need to know more about what's going on between you and Jess. Just hearing you say 'Everything is OK' isn't giving me the peace of mind that I need to honestly believe that everything really is OK."  
  
"What do you need?"  
  
"I need you to tell me what Jess was doing here tonight and what you were doing with him that is keeping you from looking me in the eyes right now."  
  
Rory blushes furiously at this.  
  
Looking up at her mother, she begins, "He called and we chatted and he came over."  
  
"Uh huh," Lorelai replies. "And?"  
  
Rory looks down again. Looking up, she grins guiltily and blurts out, "It's just embarrassing. I'm not used to talking about. . . you know."  
  
"Sex?" Lorelai says, holding her breath.  
  
"Kissing," Rory corrects.  
  
"Oh, thank God," Lorelai exhales. "When you said 'you know' my mind immediately leapt to the worst case scenario."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"No problem. Just. . . just. . . just don't use words like 'you know' to describe things that you do with Jess because it's likely to give me a heart attack."  
  
"OK, let's consider that first and only time."  
  
"Thank you. Now, what basically happened tonight?"  
  
"Well," Rory falteringly begins, "he hasn't seen any part of me that wouldn't be visible on a public beach."  
  
The obvious innocence of this admission makes Lorelai grin. "And those parts of you would be?"  
  
"My feet and my stomach," Rory admits, blushing again.  
  
Lorelai smiles and her shoulders visibly relax. Gazing at the wall, she leans back on the sofa.  
  
"You know,' Lorelai muses, "I thought potty training was hard."  
  
"But compared to this?"  
  
"A walk in the park."  
  
"Sorry about that," Rory sighs.  
  
Lorelai smiles sadly. "I love you, you know."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Rory says. Her eyes tear again as she thinks about how her relationship with her mother is going to change, has already changed. Impulsively, she lies on the sofa and rests her head on her mother's lap. Closing her eyes she says, "I love you too."  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
A/N: I would love a review. Thanks! 


	12. Laura Esquivel

A/N: I'm officially changing the rating on this story to "R". You'll see why as you read.  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys are just. . . wow.  
  
Special thanks to Beth for her expert beta (you so rock) and to "T" for letting me know it was time for a prep school skirt moment.  
  
.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
.  
  
"Mom?" Rory yawns, padding into the kitchen.  
  
The only response she receives is the baritone hum of the heater, fighting to keep out the December chill.  
  
Stretching, Rory walks to the kitchen table where she spies a note lying atop a stack of mail order catalogs. It reads:  
  
"Rory, From now on, I only want to witness one 5:30 per day (this is not it, by the way). Hotel auditors are in town - you know the drill. See you tonight. Love, Mom."  
  
Trying to remember if her mother had mentioned the audit to her yesterday, Rory's shoulders sag. There are some days when she needs to start her day the Lorelai way and today is just one of them. When Lorelai is around, Rory has the sense of being in the center of the universe, in the place where action lives. For whatever reason, she needs a high voltage dose of Middle Kingdom serum today. Disappointment over her mother's absence floods her. Compared to playful Lorelai banter, the silence of the kitchen feels heavy, oppressive. She tries to shake off the pensive feeling as she retreats to the bathroom to shower.  
  
The hot water and steam help her spirits. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Rory wraps her wet hair in a towel and returns to her room. She pulls a fresh Chilton uniform out of a dry cleaning bag and hangs it on her doorknob. Walking to her underwear drawer, Rory withdraws a matching cream lace bra and panty set. An old memory floats up and envelops her.  
  
'Always make sure your bra and panties match,' the elder Gilmore had instructed.  
  
'In case I'm hit by a bus?' Rory had asked.  
  
'OK, there's that,' Lorelai had grinned, 'but there are other reasons too.'  
  
'Like what?'  
  
'Just trust me on the matching thing.'  
  
Rory puts on her underwear, smiling to herself. On impulse, she moves to the full-length mirror. Tilting her head to the side, she removes the towel, allowing her damp hair to cascade about her shoulders. Carefully, almost scientifically, she examines her reflection in the mirror. Studying herself from every angle, she concentrates on how her body looks in the underwear. Turning and twisting, her eyebrows knit together while her lips purse in question. 'Sexy?' she wonders. Honestly, she can't tell. 'What is sexy anyway?' she muses pushing her hair out of her face. Her movements slow as she imagines what Jess would think of the set, what his reaction might be if he could see her in it. Toying with the thought, Rory gazes unseeingly at the mirror. Making unwitting eye contact with her own reflection, she is startled from her revelry. Quickly, almost guiltily, she moves away.  
  
Grabbing her uniform off the doorknob, she tosses it on the bed. Tights slide on first, then the skirt, which she steps into, tugs upwards, and buttons at her waist. Zipping it, her mind flashes to a day at Chilton last year when she watched that girl - what was her name? Lemming? Lem? - use the teacher's stapler to shorten the hem of her blue tartan plaid.  
  
Rory had walked into homeroom early and caught her doing it. Bending over slightly, the girl had tucked the hem inside her skirt and secured it, at least 5 inches shorter that it was supposed to be, with staples. She had looked up at Rory and smiled conspiratorially. Surprised, Rory had just looked away and taken her seat. She remembered the girl's smile melting off her face.  
  
Rory sits on her bed. A feeling of shame rises in her throat and she swallows it only to have it lodge uncomfortably in her stomach.  
  
At the time she had felt so superior to that girl, so. . . clean. She hadn't shared the smile because she didn't want to conspire with her, didn't want to leave any doubt that Rory disapproved of breaking dress code. Rory wasn't the kind of girl who shortened her uniform skirts. She didn't have to, didn't want to. The shortening of a prep school skirt was so cliché anyway, too Britney for her tastes. The girls who shortened their skirts were the same ones who unbuttoned their blouses, wore red lipstick, and let boys press them against lockers to kiss them. That sort of pandering your sexuality to the lowest common denominator was beneath her. She wasn't the type to illegally raise her hemline simply to feel sexy. She was better than girls like that.  
  
Her stomach churns at the memory. Face burning, she forces herself to walk back to the mirror. It's just as she suspected - her skirt hangs at exactly the Chilton regulation length. If someone measured it with a ruler, it would probably be off by less than a quarter inch, if it was off at all. Hot tears spring to her eyes as she remembers how she had felt so pure, so self-congratulatory over her sexual control.  
  
She's seized by a fleeting impulse to find that girl and apologize.  
  
It's easy to be in control of yourself when you sleepwalk through life. She hadn't understood what it was like to even want to be sexy. With Dean, she barely felt like kissing. With Jess, she feels like Gertrudis in Like Water for Chocolate, whose sexual longing is so intense, that the heat from her body causes water falling from a shower to evaporate before it ever reaches her skin. Gertrudis' heat had eventually burned the shower itself, along with half the porch, to the ground. At the time, Rory thought it was a metaphor but now she makes a mental note to ask Lorelai about fire insurance.  
  
Turning from the mirror, Rory continues dressing. Is she different from any other girl at Chilton? She's been awfully good for an awfully long time not because of a higher calling but because she simply hasn't felt like being bad. Until now. If she wants to get really honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she isn't even worthy of her hated nickname. She never really was. Mary hadn't been judgmental and unsympathetic. 'Hypocritical too,' Rory thinks, remembering her little underwear episode in front of the mirror. It's an unsettling realization to have so early in the morning.  
  
Rory Gilmore, human? Who would ever believe that?  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
Despite being largely unaware of the temperature, Rory feels immediately warmed when she walks into the diner. Making her way past the tables, already full of customers, she approaches the counter. As is her habit, she peels off her coat and drops her book bag on the floor. Peering into the kitchen, she searches for any sign of Jess.  
  
Instead, it's Luke who emerges from the kitchen.  
  
"Hi Rory," he smiles.  
  
"Hey," she greets, sitting on a stool. "Where is Jess?"  
  
"Still upstairs," Luke grumbles, pulling a pencil from behind his ear  
  
"Oh. Uh.. . . Can I-" she begins, leaving the sentence unfinished. Gesturing towards the curtain, she smiles guiltily at Luke.  
  
"Go ahead," he concedes, as he walks to a table to take an order.  
  
She slips from her stool and makes her way to the stairs.  
  
"Tell him to get a move on," he calls to her departing back, "I need his help down here."  
  
Rory turns to him and nods.  
  
As she steps behind the curtain, she pauses to catch her breath. Something is happening to her. She feels different today. Just as Tita's blood began to boil in Like Water for Chocolate, so too has Rory's blood. She's been on low simmer since meeting Jess but now, the boil is almost powerful enough to make the fabled chocolate, powerful enough to melt asphalt.  
  
Climbing the stairs, she thinks again about her morning, the mirror, the Chilton girl. She wonders absently if she'll shorten her skirts but knows she probably won't. There are many ways to be brave and really, that's one of the lesser ones. The bravest acts are always the most frightening and frankly, those are the ones she avoids. Giving herself permission to feel her life - now that will take guts. Shedding the mask of perfection that she has hidden behind all her life and letting herself be known? Scary.  
  
As she nears the apartment door, she's beginning to understand what it means to have courage. When her knock isn't answered, she opens the door slowly peeking inside. Entering the apartment, she calls to him.  
  
"Jess?"  
  
Almost immediately, the bathroom door opens and Jess emerges with a towel wrapped around his midsection. His hair is wet. Part of it sticks up, pointing in all directions while other sections hang in dripping plaits, close to his head. His body glistens, still damp from the shower. He is halfway across the room before he notices her. Mild surprise registers on his face.  
  
"Hey," he says.  
  
"Hi," she greets in return, unsure of what to do or where to look.  
  
He smirks and raises an eyebrow at her.  
  
"I didn't hear you come in but, the shower will do that to you," he says, half expecting her to bolt from the room. Water drips from his hair and runs down his neck onto his chest.  
  
"I knocked," she replies simply, watching the water's path.  
  
He laughs quietly at what he's sure is her stubborn refusal to show her discomfort.  
  
"Give me a minute to get dressed," he grins as he continues on his original course towards his bedroom. "I can be decent in no time."  
  
The words of Laura Esquivel float to her. What is decent anyway? Denying everything you want? Obeying random rules of etiquette simply because it wouldn't be proper not to?  
  
She steps in front of him blocking his path.  
  
"You look decent to me," she whispers. Placing her hands on either side of his face, she kisses him. His skin is warm and he smells of soap. Water from his hair drips across her fingers and she savors the feel of it, the taste of him.  
  
Taken aback by her boldness, he is slow to respond. Pleasure quickly overtakes surprise and he steps towards her wrapping his arms gingerly around her waist. Only when his body presses against hers does she realize just how wet he is. Automatically, she jumps backwards with a cry as she looks down at her clothes.  
  
"Sorry," he laughs, "I'm getting you wet."  
  
"It's OK," she replies looking in his eyes, "I'll just borrow this towel."  
  
Before he even knows what's happening, her fingers slip underneath the top of his towel and pull it free. She takes several steps backwards, away from him, and waits. Her face is calm and her eyes don't leave his face.  
  
A hush descends.  
  
Jess stands, frozen with shock. He's too stunned to even cry out. His jaw slackens and his eyes widen with disbelief. The only movement he makes is to blink. It's impossible. It's just. . . impossible. Words utterly fail him as he tries to process the information, tries to wrap his head around a reality in which she - Rory Gilmore - has just removed his towel. What's true and what's imagined swirl together like a kaleidoscope, all color and no sound. Water from his wet hair drips in his face and, blinking one last time, he shakes his head to clear his vision.  
  
Focusing his eyes, he sees Rory, standing more than an arm's length away from him. Her arms hang suspended, forgotten in front of her. His towel - Oh God, it is his towel - dangles from her fingertips. His mind forces him to sort through the confusion assailing him and identify the pertinent pieces of information. He is wet. He is naked. He is alone with Rory.  
  
He looks at her face and gets his second surprise. The patented predictable Gilmore blush is nowhere to be seen. She is eerily calm, self- possessed, composed. Her gaze remains glued to his face and she watches him. He knows the shock that pierced him has also crossed his face and been observed by this silent, thoughtful witness. He tries to calm his pounding heart but he knows the cadence of his breath gives away his mental state. His eyes search for, and find, her eyes. They proclaim her calmness and oddly enough, her determination. Heat passes between them and he almost succumbs to the desire to step towards her but something keeps him rooted in place.  
  
Unsure, he waits to see what happens next.  
  
Her breathing, like his, is labored. At length, her eyes break from his. With indolent grace, they slide across his face. Cheekbones, jaw, hair - all familiar territory, already cataloged, already memorized. Carefully, she moves her gaze down his neck to his shoulders. They look strong, even. Their sinew gives way to lean, muscled arms, which hang next to his body. Taking her time, Rory looks at his veins, running in blue lines down his forearms into his hands.  
  
As Rory's gaze travels back up his arms, she feels as if she's falling, falling home to herself. It's a strange sensation, like being suspended in amber, protected by dragonfly wings. She's somehow retreated into a safe, tucked away part of herself, yet she is completely present, so here in this room with him, totally in the now. Her body hums.  
  
Her eyes continue wandering. She looks at his chest and is surprised that he's so thin. Despite this or maybe because of it, his muscles stand out, clearly visible, stretched taut just underneath his skin. One word - strong - drifts across her mind. His chest is virtually hairless, his nipples, as dark as her own. Her eyes slide down his body and again, she finds him thinner than she expected. When she realizes she can count some of his lower ribs, she does. He's wiry. His stomach is hard, flat. She is fascinated to find a narrow band of curly dark hair growing just under his navel. It's path points downward and, without the slightest hesitation or feeling of shyness, she follows it. Her eyes land on the evidence of his sex.  
  
He tenses.  
  
She stares at him, not out of prurient interest but out of genuine curiosity. She's never seen this part of the male anatomy in real life before, not even to change a baby boy's diaper. This too is different from what she expected. She ponders the contrasts between imagination and reality until a bead of water slides across his hipbone and down his leg, pulling her gaze lower.  
  
His legs are covered in fine dark hairs, some of which are stuck to his skin by a thin sheen of water. Like the rest of him, his thighs are all leanness, all hard muscle. His knees are more knobby than hers and there is a large angry looking scar beside his left patella. 'Sports injury?' she wonders. Below his knees, his shins are wetter than his thighs. Where he is standing, water has pooled around his feet. Her eyes go unfocused slightly as she takes in the whole of him. His skin, God. . . his skin. It's Italian olive, though pale from lack of sun.  
  
She feels his eyes on her. The heat from his gaze almost burns her skin. Every fiber of him tugs at her like gravity but she resists. The electricity from his stare seems to find its way into her blood and settles between her legs. When she moves at last, it's not towards him but in an arc around him. With light angel steps, she walks slowly, maintaining her distance. Confused, he begins turning to face her. She stops him with a word.  
  
"Don't."  
  
Immediately, he stills. Understanding dawning, he realizes she wants to see the rest of him. He wills himself to just. . . stand there. Not moving is the hardest thing he's ever done. Somewhere, Rory has found the courage to view his body. The least he can do is take it like a man. Provided he can survive it.  
  
It's. . . God, it's fucking torture. He needs her to touch him the same way he needs water, the way he needs air. The exquisite pain of letting himself be examined this way is almost more than he can tolerate. She can't know, she couldn't know what she's doing to him. He's getting hard but there's nothing he can do about it. To cover himself would mean moving and he can't do that to her. Whatever it is that's happening to her, he's a part of it. He can't leave her - won't leave her - when she so obviously needs this. His hands curl into fists and he digs his fingernails into his palms. Shutting his eyes, he grits his teeth and he waits. For her.  
  
Rory is behind him now continuing her exploration of his physique. Her senses are nearing overload, her breathing is labored. Her eyes gaze at the tips of his hair, which curl up slightly against the back of his neck. His shoulders are square and they rise and fall as he breathes. A droplet of water slides from his neck, slips between his shoulder blades, and rolls down his back. His torso is V-shaped, his back, muscled and sturdy. Thin, thin, so thin. She stops short when she notices another scar on his lower back.  
  
It's relatively short and the edges look clean. She guesses it's a knife wound but doesn't know enough about these things to be sure. Wait - a knife wound? The thought makes her tremble. There is so much about his past he keeps secret, so much more she wants to know. One day, she'll ask to hear the stories of his scars.  
  
Her eyes move to his spine. Following its bumpy path downward, her vision lands on his ass. It's tight and small, slightly whiter than the rest of him. This at least looks exactly as she imagined it would. Just below it, the backs of his legs are solid and covered with the same fine hairs found on the front of his legs. She has a fleeting thought that his body is beginning to dry in the air.  
  
She moves closer to him, close enough for him to feel her breath on his neck and open his eyes. The urge to taste the water clinging to his shoulders is almost overwhelming but she doesn't. Instead, she inhales his clean scent before backing up to complete her journey around him.  
  
Face to face, their eyes meet. This is their world - the room, the towel, the water. Only this.  
  
He doesn't move or speak because he can't. He's too far gone for rational thought anyway. All he can do is look at her with eyes laid bare and wait. He's lost, drowned, hers. Her eyes leave his one last time to caress his body. Her gaze slips down his chest and pauses at his erection. A shiver slices through her as her eyes leap back to his.  
  
He holds her gaze. The air is thick with her want, his need. All they can do is stand in this moment and burn, burn, burn.  
  
A quote from Like Water for Chocolate flits through her mind, "To the table or to bed. You must come when you are bid." Rory moves towards him. Jess inhales sharply. When she pauses a foot away from him, a groan almost escapes him but he wills himself to remain silent. Her fingers itch to touch him. Instead, all she does is hand him his towel.  
  
"You're beautiful," she says.  
  
With those words, she turns and leaves the room. The door closes softly behind her.  
  
. ~ . ~ . ~ .  
  
A/N: Reviews are always appreciated. 


	13. e e cummings

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Eve for the support and insight, Beth for the beta and laughter, Rez for the literary device this story needed ("Rory Gilmore. Not in the plan." is a variation of her own brilliant hook, which she graciously gave me permission to borrow), and the reviewers for the motivation to keep writing.  
  
*  
  
~ * ~  
  
*  
  
Beautiful.  
  
The word had just washed over him like a benediction, like honey, warm and golden and deep enough to plunge both hands into all the way past his elbows and still not hit bottom. He wants to dive into it. Dive in and sink and sleep there and live in the sweet, dark, warm sanctuary of her words.  
  
She had called him beautiful and he had soared.  
  
Fucking soared.  
  
He had broken too, to be perfectly honest.  
  
And - he thinks - healed, maybe a little. He isn't sure because, God knows, he has no idea what that feels like.  
  
Healing, breaking, soaring - all things he isn't good at. Because, in order to heal, break, or soar, you first have to care which, incidentally, he isn't good at either.  
  
What he's good at is stocking storerooms.  
  
He reaches for another jar of pickles and puts it on the shelf. The repetition of the work provides mild relief from - from what he isn't sure and he needs to just get through two whole minutes, surely not impossible, without trying to figure it out or else he really will lose his mind.  
  
Really.  
  
What was he doing? Pickles. Right.  
  
It's a repeating pattern of boxes to the storeroom, razor to the box's top, items to the shelf, razor to the box's bottom, collapsed boxes to the pile, pile to the garbage bin in the alley. Glory hallelujah for easy, mindless, blessed manual labor and for empty storeroom shelves that make it necessary.  
  
Unlike the rest of his day, this, at least, is simple. He puts pickles or soup cans or ketchup or macaroni or flour or whatever it is that Luke has bought this week on the shelves and it stays there (stays there!) until he, or someone else, moves it.  
  
World without end, amen.  
  
He briefly thinks that he should have gotten out of Stars Hollow while he still had the chance. When he was fresh and raw and angry and unaware of girls with eyes, blue like the sky, and soft, warm, porcelain, velvet skin that smells like lavender and tastes like rainwater.  
  
He should have stepped off the bus, grabbed a shower and a quick meal, and escaped with all the pieces of himself in tact. Assuming, of course, that he could have scraped together enough of himself - 'in tact,' so not a phrase that applies to him - to make it worth the effort.  
  
He could have just left. Should have.  
  
He always wanted to see the Southwest - full of red clay dirt and snakes and flat treeless land and old men with leathery tanned faces - just for the novelty of it. He'd wander through Texas or Arizona and make a big long list of things that were different from his real life, the one he left behind in the city, so he would know exactly what they were - those missing things. He could find them and name them and write them down and fucking alphabetize them if he wanted to because it would be his goddamn list.  
  
He could just sit on a rock in a canyon near a cactus and write until his life made sense.  
  
He pictures miles and miles of nothing but open fields, endless vistas of horizon beyond which is only more horizon. Enough space to get lost. Maybe enough space to forget.  
  
But of course, that was before.  
  
Thinking back on it, he understands the tactical error of staying in Stars Hollow.  
  
Rory Gilmore. Not in the plan.  
  
Denver would have worked too, he thinks. The romantic lure of Sal Paradise searching for Dean Moriarty plays across his mind like a black and white movie reel, like a siren call. Yes, Colorado would have been different enough from New York with its pine trees and mountains and clean air and people with skis strapped to the roofs of their cars. It would have done the trick.  
  
'The air in Colorado is clean, isn't it?' he wonders briefly.  
  
Reaching into the box to grab another jar of pickles he stops briefly to laugh at himself. A smoker searching for clean air? Who is he kidding?  
  
When he stacks the pickles, he lines them up in straight-arrow rows and turns their labels to face the front because - shaking his head - he doesn't know why he does it. Luke and Caesar just put items on the shelves and how they land, sloppy, crooked, and pointing in all directions, is how they stay. He looks around the storeroom and sees evidence of items unpacked by him - cans, jars, and boxes standing like soldiers at attention, neat and facing forward, amid the other haphazardly placed goods. Maybe that's why he does it - to provide tangible proof that he was here, is here.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
She called him beautiful.  
  
That wasn't even two minutes, he thinks, groaning inwardly.  
  
The irony of life giving him exactly what he wants before he's actually equipped to deal with it is not lost on him.  
  
If only he had left Stars Hollow on that first or second day, he'd be done with his list by now. He could have been out west or up north or wherever it is that the lost parts of him live with The List of Missing Things in his hands. The list would whisper secrets, tell him what he needs to know about how to live without pushing everyone, everyone, everyone away.  
  
Then, mysteries understood and necessary paths walked, he'd come back for her.  
  
He would come back to Stars Hollow and everything would fall into place, perfect and orderly like the pickle jars in the storeroom. Seriously. He would have come back - 'I would have,' he tells a bottle of doubtful looking Aunt Jemima syrup - armed with whatever it is that he needs to be the kind of person she could love.  
  
Love.  
  
Oh, God.  
  
Eyes close, heart pounds.  
  
Not in the plan.  
  
He would seek her out, first thing. Find her and tell her about the leather-faced cowboys, the density and color of Utah snow, the ghost of Jack Kerouac who bummed a cigarette from him on Colfax Avenue, his magic List, and how he got his shit together. She'd ask to see the list because that's the kind of person she is. He would show it to her (alphabetized even!) knowing that she would understand and recognize that he isn't the kind of person to be abused or threatened or (worse) ignored or thrown away.  
  
He sighs heavily rubbing his beginning-to-fatigue shoulders and neck while the visions of Texas and Wyoming dissipate, as they should really, like fading carnival music.  
  
Honestly, flight is no longer an option. It's way too late for that.  
  
The real question is - if he's not going to run, what is he going to do?  
  
The pickles are almost unpacked. They're large economy sized jars and he has to make sure he's got a good hold on each one before he lifts it out of the box.  
  
Because, they're made of glass and things made of glass break when you drop them.  
  
He found that out the hard way his third week here in purgatory. Not that he didn't know it before but, spend a full half hour cleaning up tiny shards of glass and pickle juice that has splattered absolutely everywhere and, man, that lesson is learned.  
  
It's a little known fact that you have to mop a floor twice a day, for three days in a row before you finally rid a poorly ventilated area of the smell of smashed pickles. Just another useless piece of information to add to his collection. File it next to everything he learned in the city that doesn't matter for shit here.  
  
Like how to protect yourself in a knife fight (not that he always walked away without cuts) or how to sleep in a park and not get rolled for cash (not that he never got rolled). The point is that there are calculated risks involved in every activity and he always senses when he's in danger and about to get hurt.  
  
Except not here.  
  
Here, he knows nothing about the danger that comes packaged in silky brown hair and a prep school uniform. How danger can grow two (gorgeous) legs, walk into a diner, sit on a stool, order coffee, and study him silently while he works. If she'd come with a warning label, he could have protected himself better.  
  
Except that isn't entirely true.  
  
Because, he sensed she was dangerous the first time she smiled at him.  
  
And he felt she was dangerous when she knew as much about literature as he did.  
  
But he knew she was dangerous when she accidentally grabbed his hand - her skin like moonlight - instead of the coffee mug he had offered her and he felt like he'd been struck by lightning.  
  
Heat lightning, if you want to know the truth of it. The kind that flashes on summer nights when there isn't a single raindrop in a 400-mile radius but the sky is too hot and too humid and too angry to let the moment pass unnoticed, unsung.  
  
Her quiet danger was recognized too late. He had been so stupid.  
  
Except that it really wasn't his fault. Had his world been filled with Rorys instead of Shanes he would have known to be wary. He could have been more careful. He would have known what she - this golden child, chosen one, innocent - was capable of doing to him.  
  
He could have prevented this unbelievable mess.  
  
Yes, knowing the risks certainly would have helped.  
  
Except - here's the real brutal truth of it - he probably wouldn't have done anything differently, even if he had known.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
The word escaped from her lips - pink and delicious, covering perfect straight white teeth, surrounding her soft warm tongue - like a prayer and went straight to his core using one of the tunnels she carved in him herself with her hands, her laugh, and her words.  
  
Rory Gilmore.  
  
Love.  
  
Not in the plan.  
  
~ * ~  
  
He turns to find her standing in the doorway and he jumps, caught off guard.  
  
"Hey," she says to the sacks of sugar on the shelf behind his right shoulder.  
  
"Hey," he greets in return.  
  
He curses himself for not knowing she was there while she grins shyly (at the salt shakers), a blush rising prettily in her cheeks.  
  
He watches as her eyes drift around the room, from the salt to the mustard bottles to the cans of tomato sauce to the pickles. She looks everywhere but at him.  
  
'Seen enough of me already today, Rory?' he wonders.  
  
He watches her fidget in the doorway and wants to speak to her - feels like he should - but for the life of him, he can't think of one single thing to say.  
  
He had been unloading cans of peaches before turning to find her watching him. Now, he places the can that's still in his hand on the shelf, spinning it so that it, too, faces forward. He leaves the other hand lingering on the cardboard box while he stares in the corner of the room, past the hamburger buns, trying desperately to think of something to say.  
  
It's ridiculous.  
  
It's not like he's never been naked in front of a woman before.  
  
He needs to just relax and talk to her about it. She probably needs to. Talk, that is.  
  
But he can't because there's something about this woman - this surprising and crystalline girl - that makes it all feel new and different and - God, just different.  
  
Inhaling deeply he looks at her and begins speaking at exactly the same moment she does.  
  
"You-"  
  
"So-"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Go ahead," he urges, motioning with his hand.  
  
"You first," she counters.  
  
"I was just going to say that you look nice," he finishes, weakly.  
  
And she does. She's wearing a blue dress, ethereal and filmy, which seems to just flow over her body, skimming her limbs in a way that's achingly sexy. She probably has no idea, he thinks. The fabric looks thin and he imagines her body just beneath it. There's a white cardigan unbuttoned over it but it doesn't spoil the line.  
  
"Oh," she replies, obviously not expecting that comment, "thank you."  
  
When he remains quiet, she continues, "I was at my grandparents. You know, Friday night. Dinner . . ."  
  
Her voice trails off as she tucks her hair behind her ear. A nervous habit.  
  
"Oh, right," he says. "How'd that go?"  
  
"No drinks were spilled. No blood was shed. Considering my mom and my grandparents were in the same room, that's a quiet dinner for us."  
  
He smiles.  
  
Silence again.  
  
Somehow the only comments that pop into his head are wildly inappropriate. 'You saw me naked.' 'I was hard.' 'I've thought about this morning every two minutes, all day long.' 'I wanted to fuck you so bad my hands shook for an hour after you left.'  
  
He knows better than to say any of those things to this girl.  
  
She too, seems to be casting about for some way to start the conversation. The one they both know they need to have.  
  
"Jess-" she begins, moving towards him.  
  
Automatically, he steps backwards away from her.  
  
'Idiot!' and 'What the hell is wrong with you?' shoot through his head like bottle rockets.  
  
She freezes, unsure of what to do now, startled by his retreat.  
  
Sighing, he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
He thinks about his friends at home and what they'd say to him - especially Sean - if they could see him now. Wow. Thank God they can't.  
  
Suddenly, it's funny, hilarious even, and he laughs. It starts out small and self-effacing but grows to a full-grown, regulation laugh. Jess Mariano, afraid of a girl. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at her. She is laughing now, too.  
  
Tension broken, he watches her visibly relax. The room is suddenly warmer, safer.  
  
"OK, tell you what," she starts, "let's draw an imaginary line down the center of the room. That can be your side," she indicates the area where he's standing, "and this will be my side."  
  
"Fine," he grins, walking towards her anyway.  
  
Stepping right over the imaginary line, he stops about a foot from her and reaches out his hand to run his thumb across her cheek. Soft and smooth ivory. She takes his hand in hers and pulls it in between them.  
  
"I think this is the part where I'm supposed to say I'm sorry," she tells their interlocked fingers before looking up, "except that would be hypocritical because I'm not. Sorry I mean."  
  
He waits, without benefit of the List or any other instructions about what to do next. Uncharted territory, this.  
  
"I wanted to see you. All of you," she clarifies as though he needs it.  
  
He says the first thing he can think of - "The male body is a normal thing to be curious about."  
  
It's a thought that's been humming through him all day; he's the first naked man she's ever seen. His body. Her first.  
  
She nods, colors, and looks down again.  
  
"It was . . . you were . . . are . . ." she stumbles.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
She said he was beautiful.  
  
She looks in his eyes and can't finish it. Can't finish the thought and he doesn't care because her eyes are guileless and watery and a shade of blue he's never seen anywhere else and he thinks, idly, that God must have created this color just for her.  
  
"It's OK. I'm not upset, or mad, or . . . whatever it is that you think you need to apologize for. I was" - he grins broadly - "surprised."  
  
"Well," she says quietly, "I'm a little bit sorry for that."  
  
He laughs softly, deep in his throat. "Don't be."  
  
'The female body is a normal thing to be curious about, too' he thinks, looking at her. Blue dress that's barely there and her lithe body underneath it and her so intoxicatingly close.  
  
Air. He needs air.  
  
Stepping back without releasing her hand, he pulls her into the diner's deserted kitchen.  
  
"Water," he explains as they walk to the sink.  
  
Taking down two glasses, he fills both and hands one to her. Grateful, she accepts it.  
  
The water is cool as it slides down his throat. He watches her watch him and words, long forgotten, pop into his head. Before he can filter it, he says.  
  
"Here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap and to your- in my arms flowering so new -self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain.'"  
  
Her eyes dance.  
  
"Who wrote that?" she asks, voice hushed.  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
She shakes her head.  
  
"You'd only need the next line to figure it out," he assures her.  
  
"So give me the next line."  
  
He regards her for a moment and says "'and here's to silent certainly mountains; and to a disappearing poet of always-"  
  
"Cummings!" she interrupts, triumphant. "It's e. e. cummings. I don't know the poem but he writes like that."  
  
Her face glows with a flattered smile and she says, "I can't believe I reminded you of an e. e. cummings poem."  
  
Deadly, this girl.  
  
"You remind me of many e. e. cummings poems," he admits.  
  
"Ooh, is one of them 'Anyone lived in a little how town'? Because I've always wanted to remind someone of that poem."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Damn."  
  
He laughs at her, at himself. Quoting poetry - God, what next?  
  
"Tell me another," she urges.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh, c'mon."  
  
"I can only quote one poem per day. I have my reputation to think about."  
  
"Please?"  
  
'Jesus Christ, Mariano,' Sean's voice floats across the distance to slap him across the back of his head, 'stop being such a pussy and tell her the real poem you're thinking about.'  
  
-Which is exactly why it does no good to think about his friends during times like these.  
  
Jess places his now empty glass on the counter and settles his hands possessively on Rory's hips, the feel of her under his hands still so new and so right.  
  
She lifts an eyebrow in silent question as if to say, 'well?'  
  
He leans over and smells her hair. Citrus.  
  
Rory Gilmore, standing in the half-light with hair that smells like an orange grove and the face of an angel.  
  
Not in the plan.  
  
'While we're young,' Sean grunts impatiently.  
  
He begins-  
  
"'Come a little further - why be afraid - here's the earliest star, have you a wish?'" he says into her hair.  
  
Fingers now in her hair, which is like silk - a mild thought about how cliché that sounds but it really is true - thick and strong, and sliding so nicely between his fingers and then-  
  
"'Touch me, before we perish, believe that not anything which has ever been invented can spoil this or this instant,'"  
  
His mouth inches from her ear now - "'kiss me a little, the air darkens and is alive. O live with me in the fewness of these colors,'"  
  
And finally, lips on her temple, "'alone who slightly always are beyond the reach of death.'"  
  
He lifts his head to look at her and his eyes lock on hers.  
  
"How much further?" she asks, breathless.  
  
Excellent question, Rory.  
  
By way of answer, his hands find her hips again and he walks her across the kitchen until her back hits the wall. His mouth covers hers and the resulting kiss, while not ferocious, isn't gentle either.  
  
'Do you have any idea how good I can make you feel, Rory? Do you?' he thinks.  
  
Her mouth opens greedily, urging him forward.  
  
It's all he needs.  
  
His body presses against hers and he learns that her dress really is as thin as it looks. He's instantly reeling because she's warmer than he expected and small and fits so perfectly against him. And he can feel her, really feel her body through the thin material; chest heaving, heart pounding, stomach pressed to his, an involuntary thrust of her hips - sweet lord he's reeling again.  
  
He knew how it would be.  
  
And he knows what she needs.  
  
Sliding his leg between hers, he presses the swollen part of himself against her and, for the first time, lets her feel the extent of his desire for her.  
  
An answering gasp escapes her and she spreads her legs a little to give him more room.  
  
It's shocking, her movement. How she knows what to do, he has no idea, but he's not one for overanalyzing gifts when they present themselves.  
  
Repositioning so he's right there, he presses himself against her most sensitive area and smiles when he hears a small airy moan escape from her. A thick sound.  
  
It feels so incredibly good that he keeps doing it. He wants to rock her into that place of mindless earth-shattering glorious oblivion.  
  
Peace be with you (and also with you.)  
  
He feels fistfuls of his shirt tangle in her hands and hears his name (his name!) sail from her lips, half whisper, half moan.  
  
If she was anyone else, he'd fuck her right here standing up.  
  
But she's not anyone else.  
  
Instead, he moves his hand to her breast and drags his thumb across her nipple. She shivers and tries to un-tuck his shirt but he can't allow that. If her hands find his skin she'll be looking at the business end of a Jess Mariano self-control meltdown.  
  
And if she was anyone else that wouldn't be a problem but his release is, alas, not on tonight's agenda.  
  
'Didn't you read your syllabus, Rory?' he thinks. 'The lesson for today is Understanding Your Own Needs and Finding the Rhythm. The Do's and Don'ts of touching me come later. Please stay on topic and raise your hand if you have questions.'  
  
Speaking of rhythm-  
  
"Rory," he says.  
  
She opens her eyes - pupils dilated - and looks at him. His hands slide to her hips.  
  
"Move with me," he whispers.  
  
With his hands he shows her how to move her hips in time with his to increase her pleasure.  
  
"Yeah, just like that," he responds, bracing himself against the wall as she begins moving on her own.  
  
Suddenly, he's grateful for that wall. It will help hold her up when he's too weak to do it himself - and weak he will be by the time this is over.  
  
Her hips move haltingly at first, almost timidly.  
  
The play of emotions across her face is incredible and he watches as she falls under the spell of it. Under the spell, as old as time itself, of bodies coming together and moving as one.  
  
In the beginning, there was light.  
  
He'd be content to just watch her make these new discoveries - her face open and expressive - but she has other plans. Her hand moves to the back of his head and pulls his mouth to hers, sliding her soft tongue inside him, hungry and wanting.  
  
Thin is the dress and flushed is the face. He feels her (breasts, stomach, legs, hips, sex) so clearly that it's almost painful.  
  
She finds her rhythm - oh God, yes, she does - and sets their pace.  
  
He moves with her, against her, mumbling mostly unintelligible words. He thinks he says 'beautiful' and 'feel you' and 'so good' but he isn't sure because she takes his words and swallows them like honey.  
  
His hands continue their exploration, each touch freeing a part of her from the place she has hidden for so long.  
  
Absolutely amazing.  
  
He's been wanting to touch her like this since morning, since she took his towel.  
  
Except - here's a shock - that isn't entirely true.  
  
He's been wanting to touch her like this since he first laid eyes on her - incandescent, unspoiled, beloved. He should have left before want became need, need became ache, and ache became burn. Today, the burn became liquid and poured through him like lava. If she hadn't come to him tonight, he'd be nothing but a pile of ash.  
  
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  
  
Her breath is quicker and she moans softly with each exhale now. The sound of it is has him hanging by a thread and dying for her. Dying to bury himself in her and, if she was anyone else - literally, anyone else - he would.  
  
But she isn't anyone else.  
  
She's the special girl.  
  
She of sunlight. She of rainstorms. She of life.  
  
The girl he actually - God help him - loves.  
  
Her head is thrown back and her body is suddenly taut like a bow.  
  
She's close, he realizes. He moves a fraction faster and presses the place he thinks will make the most difference for her.  
  
And it does.  
  
The wave hits her like a force of nature and she cries out (his name) while he watches it carry her away. She sails into this uncharted ocean on the back of a blue whale that has been waiting, rider-less by the shore, for her.  
  
His embrace (hands, arms, body) steadies her as she takes the journey. He finds he can hold her up better than he expected.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
She called him beautiful but what could be more beautiful than she, right now?  
  
He watches her - soaring and in his arms - and knows the Southwest holds nothing he needs.  
  
More waves take her as she calls for him again. His only answer, whispered against her ear-  
  
"I'm here. I'm here."  
  
~ * ~  
  
A/N: Like most fic writers, I live for feedback. 


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